Snapshots
by jd517
Summary: Set shortly after series 4 - What if Doc had to take the job in London?
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer – Doc Martin and its characters, places and themes and everything else belong to Buffalo Pictures. I am responsible only for my own imagination.

Snapshots

Chapter 1

It is a perfect Portwenn summer day. The sky is as clear a blue as you can imagine, and its colour is echoed in the slightly deeper tones of the sea spreading below it. Louisa sits in a chair on the terrace at White Rose Cottage, smiling up at me, looking like nothing else but a Renaissance Madonna in her blue dress with her son - OUR son - cradled expertly in the crook of her elbow. Her hair is blown slightly by the breeze and she laughs and brushes it away. I stand looking at her, speechless as I often am with her, and realize I need to capture this – to have this moment permanently. I snap a picture as she smiles and I notice the hint of a smile on Will's face. Medically, I know he is too young to smile voluntarily and that his expression is no doubt wind, but it pleases me to see him with the look of a smile, which is so like his mother's it takes my breath away. My heart fills with love. As I gaze at them, the telephone rings. I am puzzled that neither Louisa nor Will reacts or even changes expression. The telephone rings again and I jolt awake, realizing I have been daydreaming. I am not in Portwenn. Louisa's smile, and Will's, are looking back at me from the snap I took that day, now framed in leather in my desk drawer in London. My heart, and doubtlessly my face as well, fall.

The phone rings a third time. I close the drawer and lift the receiver. "Ellingham" I growl, perhaps more sharply than necessary, fueled by my frustration at having my happy memory interrupted. The scheduler with her vaguely Geordie accent informs me that the procedure preceding mine has been completed and that they are preparing Theatre Four for me now. "Right. I will be there directly."

Hanging up the phone, I glance around my office. The desktop is tidy with little to give away the identity of the occupant, but there is a plaque by the door "Martin C. Ellingham, M.D., FRCS, Chief of Vascular Surgery". There are, however, several boxes of books and other belongings not yet unpacked upon my arrival here four weeks ago, after my hastily arranged parental leave. I slip my arms into the sleeves of my white coat and head out the door.

I try to put Louisa and Will out of my mind and run through the meditations that I rely on keep my haemophobia at bay but it is not working as well today as it should and I am distracted. As I dash down the hall towards the changing rooms, a young woman comes round the corner and bangs smack into me, spilling her cardboard cup of nasty hospital coffee on my shirt.

"Watch where you're going" I shout over my shoulder. I hear her mutter "Tosser!" as she looks at the spilt coffee on the floor. Some things never change.

XXXXXXXXX

The baby is crying and nothing I do is soothing him. He arches his back away from me and wails, pushing with his feet as if to say "take me away from this incompetent mum". Tears are sticky on his face as I pat his back and lay him across my shoulder, hoping to perhaps coax a belch out of his poor tummy and ease his misery. As I pace, I notice what a tip the cottage looks and sigh. There is wet laundry laid across every surface since the clothes dryer picked this morning to break and the rain pouring down outside precluded a clothesline in the back garden. After bringing up wind and quite a lot of milk all over my shirt in a belch reminiscent of a football hooligan after a pub crawl, Will quiets a bit. I stop and risk sitting down, hoping to rest my eyes for just a moment but the instant I stop walking, he starts up howling again. With another sigh I resume pacing, stopping to look for a dry tea towel to wipe the spit up off my shirt.

As the pacing continues, the doorbell rings. I open the door to the welcome sign of Al Large and his toolbox, come to fix the dryer, with his father in tow.

"Hullo, Louisa, Hullo little man" says Bert with a smile. Al just nods, "Louisa" but he smiles at the baby just the same.

"Thanks for coming – I'm at my wit's end in the rain without the dryer."

"Now you just let Al get started on the dryer, and I'll put these things in your fridge – a few tidbits to tempt your appetite" says Bert, pointing to a basket over his elbow.

"Thanks, Bert" I respond "I haven't been to the market, what with the rain and the baby and the dryer."

"Never you mind, Louisa. We'll get you sorted." Bert replies.

"Look, there, he's gone to sleep, innt he" says Al. "What a good boy, he is."

I look down and see that Will has indeed fallen asleep, blessedly and peacefully asleep.

"Can you just peek at the dryer – it's through there – while I see if I can put him down?"

"That's just great, Louisa" says Bert in an exaggerated whisper, making a big show of tiptoeing to the fridge with his basket. In his effort to make certain I notice him being quiet, he topples a chair which creates a loud bang.

"Dad, you're hopeless" mutters Al, shaking his head.

Thankfully Will hasn't noticed the ruckus. I silently mouth "Thank you, Al" and take Will up the stairs to the nursery.

I manage to transfer him to his cot without waking him and without stumbling in the dark. I sink into the rocker in the corner and my eyes fall on the photo on the top of the table. It shows the three of us, Will, Martin and me, on that wonderful midsummer evening when Will was born. We've arrived at hospital and I am propped up in bed in a hospital gown with Will swaddled and sleepy in my arms. Martin stands awkwardly next to the bed, looking as disheveled as I have ever seen him- in his shirtsleeves with his tie loosened- and somewhat dazed. He didn't manage quite a smile for the camera Joan was pointing at us, but if you know him and his expressions, it is a tender look. Poor Martin - that was a banner day for him, for all of us but especially him. Instead of driving to London and putting Portwenn behind him as he planned, he ended up stopping to save several lives, declaring his love for me while I gave birth to his son in a pub, and deciding he did in fact want to be a dad who did more than write cheques.

We had quite an ambulance ride to hospital that afternoon. Martin insisted on going with me and while we rode there, companionably, he wanted to snap a photo of the baby for Joan. When he pulled out his mobile, he was surprised to find a dead battery. I remember him saying to me "This baby needs a family" and my response "This baby has a family – what he needs is a name."

I wasn't sure how to respond when he replied "Yes, I guess he does. Have you chosen one?" Was he saying he didn't care what the baby's name was? Or was it something else – a reluctance to interfere or a simple ignorance of baby names? He had stayed as far away as he could from all baby preparations, but it seemed to me important that he voice an opinion on the baby's name. I held my breath and waded in.

"Well I don't want to name him after my dad, and from what Joan's told me of your dad, I don't think we should use his name either" I began.

"Good lord, no" he said with a vehemence that surprised me. "There is no need for another Christopher Ellingham in this world if that is what you mean."

"Good, that's agreed then." I smiled, then took a deep breath. "Does that mean you want his surname to be Ellingham?" I ventured.

The expression on his face was guarded, in that patented Martin manner, but I saw hurt in his eyes.

"Well, Glasson is fine too, if that's what you want Louisa" he said quickly but I knew somehow that wasn't what he wanted. I was buoyed by the fact that perhaps I might be cracking the code of communicating with him.

"I had hoped you'd want him to be an Ellingham" I started, cautiously "but I wouldn't have used that in the village without your consent."

The look in his eyes was one of relief and regret and most of all of love, and it was at that moment, more than any other one, that it seemed to me he became a father.

"My grandfather was William" I mentioned, knowing as I did that his Portwenn grandfather had been William as well. "William Glasson".

"William" he said thoughtfully "yes, that's it."

I agreed "He looks like a William, I think. William Ellingham has a nice ring to it."

"William _Glasson _Ellingham" he whispered in that soft tone I long to hear, looking at our sleeping son. "We're your family." My hand squeezed his in agreement.

When the ambulance reached the hospital, our happy trio was disrupted immediately. I handed the baby to Martin while the gurney I was on was pulled out of the ambulance. He handed Will to a nurse who quickly whisked him to an isolette and we were all rushed into the Casualty department for evaluation.

Much later, after I'd been checked over and rehydrated and Will had been pronounced healthy on all counts, and Martin had terrorized the staff barking orders about checking for anemia and strep B and all manner of medial maladies, Joan had arrived, bearing an armload of flowers from her garden and a camera to snap herself the picture that Martin had promised her.

As Will stirred in his cot, I was pulled back to the present. I set the photo back on the table, smiling at the memory of how quickly we became a family that day. And despite everything else, despite Edith and Mr. Strain and Portwenn's new GP and even despite bloody Imperial College Hospital, a family we remain.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

I am dozing in the rocker when Al taps on the door frame.

"Sorry to wake you, but I found the problem with the dryer." He holds up a tiny sock "This was wound round the rotor and causing a problem but yer all set now."

"Thanks, Al. I'll just get my bag and my chequebook"

"No charge for this, Louisa. I insist. It's just neighborly, like."

"But I mean to pay you, Al. You can't just fix things for free, that's not a good use of your plumbing knowledge."

"I won't hear of it and neither would Paul. She misses him, ya know, the doc I mean."

"How's it going with the new doc – for Pauline I mean?"

"Well he's not Doc Martin, that's for sure. She says there's something queer about him but she can't put her finger on it. It's early days, though, innit?"

"I'll have to call round to see her and catch up on the news."

"She'd like that. We'd all like to see you come round, and bring his nibs in there when he's awake."

"I'll do that. Thanks again, Al. Give my best to Pauline. And thank your dad for the treats – that was kind of him."

"Oh you know him, always fussing, innt he. We'll see ourselves out – you catch a little rest while the baby's asleep."

As I watch him go down the stairs and out the door, I contemplate that advice and then realize that even more than a nap I want a bath. Looking in the mirror, I am sure I stink of sweat and wet nappies and sour milk and talcum. I check Will again and figure I have 20 minutes before he wants to feed again. I run the bath quickly with the baby monitor balanced precariously on the towel warmer.

Sinking into the bubbles, I remember our routine during the brief four weeks of Martin's parental leave. He'd arrive from Joan's with the marketing done around 4 and we'd have a cup of tea and a chat about the baby and how he was doing. I'd pop up for a bath like this while he tended to Will and fixed our supper. He really is a wonderful cook and he was so sweetly concerned about how I was eating to keep up my strength, provide optimal nutrition to Will and stave off anemia. After supper I might have a short nap before Will needed to feed and then Will and I would go off to sleep. Martin would tidy up and read his medical journals or fiddle with his clock. He'd keep an eye and an ear on Will until he woke to feed again. If I'd had the chance to pump, he'd give him a bottle; otherwise he'd bring him to me and I'd wake just enough to feed him before letting Martin take him away to change his nappy and wind him and walk the floor with him, letting me get some blissful rest. I think Martin's medical training stood him in good stead those long nights. In the morning, he'd bring our breakfast up on a tray along with the baby. We'd have a lovely long visit, and then Martin would go back to Joan's to sleep. It was an odd arrangement – I couldn't persuade him to sleep in my bed while I tended the baby during the day - but I also know we couldn't have made it through those early days as well as we did without him as my partner in baby rearing.

This all came to a halt when he reluctantly went back to London to take up his post as Chief of Vascular Surgery at Imperial. I insisted he go. Not because it didn't break my heart to have him leave or because I was particularly ready to soldier on as a single mum. Rather, I recalled that night in the ambulance with Peter Cronk when he'd so wistfully recounted how surgery was the one thing he was good at. He worked so hard to conquer his haemophobia too. I couldn't deny him the chance to prove it to himself that he COULD do this again if he wanted to. I desperately wanted him not to want to. If I could have kept him in Portwenn while allowing him to be a surgeon, I would have. But all I could do was hope that he missed us as much as I missed him, and he would realize there was more in his life, and he was good at many things, besides surgery.

XXXXXX

The stents have been placed in the appropriate arteries and the patient's leg should heal nicely. A success, I think, as I toss my discarded gloves in the bin and pull down my mask. As I look at my scrubs, dotted with blood, I realized the progress I have made in conquering the haemophobia and wonder why I don't feel more satisfied. I still have to talk to the patient's wife, a nervous woman who I am sure has an undiagnosed Bell's palsy. I wonder if I can persuade her to see a consultant about that. I decide I am too bloody to see her in scrubs and return to the changing rooms, where I remember too late that my shirt is dripping with coffee from that careless woman in the hallway. I rummage in my locker for a spare shirt and come up empty, then reach for new scrubs. As I transfer my keys from one pocket to the other, I pick up my mobile from the locker. It's four o'clock. Will should be sleeping if Louisa has kept him on his schedule. Should I call her? Or will that seem like checking up and not trusting her with this most precious responsibility? Will she welcome my call or curse me for waking the baby? I am not used to dithering. I weigh the fact that the baby needs sleep and Louisa needs the baby to sleep against my own need for them which is like the need for air to breathe. I punch her number, and the photo associated with it, a candid of her laughing that tinkling sweet laugh of her that lightens my heart, fills the tiny screen. I push send. The phone rings a couple times and then the answerphone picks up. "Erm, hello, uh, Louisa. It's me. Martin, I mean. Just calling to see how Will's colic is doing. I am out of the theatre now if you have a chance to call. Erm. Goodbye."


	2. Chapter 2

Snapshots

Chapter 2

Martin and I are passengers on the Titanic and it is sinking. I am freezing cold and wet. I feel despair and hear Martin's weak voice saying my name quietly as he slides under the icy sea. There is a loud noise of the ship collapsing and the sound of alarm bells clanging and I feel the frigid water engulfing me. Then I hear the sound of my son's cry calling me back from the deep and my dream. I wake immediately and I realize I have fallen asleep in the bath and the water has cooled considerably. I hear Will's cry on the baby monitor, the doorbell ringing, the dryer alarm buzzing, and someone leaving a message on the answerphone. I leap out of the cold water and lunge for my dressing gown hanging on the back of the door. I struggle to wrap it around my dripping body as I sprint towards the nursery. I can tell that Will has moved on from his waking up mewling to full-fledged bawling. As I lift him up, I smell the unmistakable scent of a dirty nappy. The doorbell rings again. I cradle him on my shoulder and thunder down the stairs toward the door, calling out "Coming, Coming" and silently cursing whoever might be stopping by unexpectedly.

On the doorstep I find Joan Norton, holding a box. "Oh, Will, look – Auntie Joan has come to see us, and just in time for tea! Isn't that lovely?" It is my cheerful mummy voice and I wonder if an infant can tell when it is forced and insincere.

"Hullo Louisa, Hullo Will" she chirps. "How's my favorite grand-nephew today?"

"Not at his best, right now, I'm afraid, Joan. Needs a change and is desperate for his tea." I tell her, bouncing on the balls of my feet trying to distract him as his tiny fists push against my swollen breasts.

"Well I've brought you some eggs and some vegetables. There are lots of greens this time of year and Marty has told me how important it is for you to keep your iron levels up."

I try to hide my grimace at the ominous thought of a diet filled with spinach and kale. "Thank you, Joan. You know you didn't need to do that." I say as I use the baby-laden arm to gesture for her to come in. "Would you mind putting them on the table for me?"

"Be glad to" she replies, as I close the door behind her with my foot.

"Do you have time for a cup of tea?" I ask "Bert Large was here with a basket that I am sure has something delicious in it if you want to stay and share."

"I am a bit parched, thank you" she replied "Why don't I get the kettle on while you see if you can sort young Will here." She says, patting his back.

I give her what I hope is a grateful glance then hustle back up the stairs, singing to Will to try to soothe him "Twinkle, twinkle little star, how I wonder where you are"

XXXXX

I return to my desk after reporting to Mr. Willis' wife. She was grateful for my efforts on his behalf, but seemed none too pleased at my diagnosis of her Bell's Palsy. Stupid woman, really. Perhaps in my notes to her husband's GP, I can mention again the importance of her seeing a consultant about that. I am finding it harder than I remembered to only treat the surgical cases presented to me.

There are three pink message slips on my desk from the ever-efficient department secretary, Mrs. Warren. If only Pauline could have had a few lessons from her, I think as I thumb through them, with the hope that one will be from Louisa. Not this time though. There is one from a GP asking for a surgical consultation on behalf of a patient, one from Chris Parsons asking me to call him when convenient, and one from Robert asking to see me immediately.

I glance at the clock on my desk. Six o'clock. Robert might still be here. As I put my consultant's coat back on over my now dry but stained shirt and tie, there is a tap at my door. Bracing for Robert, I say "Come." When I look up, though, it is not Robert. It is Edith.

"Ellingham" she says, looking me up and down, in a way that makes me feel uncomfortably like chattel.

"Edith" I reply, nodding.

"Aren't you going to ask me in" she says, sitting down anyway, without waiting for an invitation.

"Well, I was just leaving, actually" I say, gesturing towards the hallway with my head.

"Surely you can spare me a moment. I've just been visiting with Robert. Were your ears burning?"

"What? No, I mean why would they?"

"He was singing your praises. Good for you, that. I was surprised to hear how well you are getting on here."

"Surprised?"

"Well, seeing as the last time I saw you, you fainted dead away at the sight of a single drop of blood and were talking nonsense about giving up this post entirely."

I sputter but no words come out and she continues talking without noticing.

"I am glad you have come to your senses and didn't let that woman and her baby pull you off your career track. That would have been most unfortunate."

"You have no idea what you are talking about" I say, heatedly I will admit but not shouting, at least I don't think I am shouting. "Will is MY son and Louisa is not THAT Woman. And shall I remind you that the incident to which you refer was not a medical one. I had some trouble when holding my two-day old infant at his circumcision which is not remotely relevant to my ability as a surgeon or my MINOR BLOOD ISSUE – I was there as a parent. It was a very emotional moment. And what were you doing there anyway? I never did find that out."

"My, my, no need to be so touchy, so EMOTIONAL, Martin" she clucks. "When did you become Mr. Sensitive? For your information, I was at the hospital in Truro because I am on staff there, in case that slipped your mind. I was, er, checking on a patient and happened to notice you there."

"As I recall it" I begin, remembering that day vividly "you came into the paedeatric consulting room in the obstetrical suite and asked to be shown 'that Glasson baby'. When the nurse told you there was no Glasson baby in the nursery, you told her that of course there was as your obstetrics team had word that Miss Glasson had delivered her baby and was now a patient. At that point, I asked you if you wanted to see the ELLINGHAM baby, who was with Louisa and me in the next room, awaiting the urologist."

"Forgive me if I have less than perfect recall on the details." She says, acidly. "But I do distinctly remember coming through the doorway and seeing you go down like a rock from a drop of blood."

"For God's sake, Edith. It wasn't the blood." I said, or really maybe this time shouted, recalling in despair my reaction to hearing the baby cry in pain and Louisa crying with him, and looking at me accusingly, reminding me uncomfortably of our earlier row about whether or not he should be circumcised.

From the door comes Robert's voice "Ah, yes, here you are."

"I was, er, just coming to see you. Your message came when I was with a patient" I begin as he comes in the door but my voice trails off as I see that he clearly is speaking to Edith and not to me.

"Are you hungry yet? I've booked us a table at 7:30 at Valentino's." He goes on, as he slips his arm around her waist.

I am flummoxed. Isn't he married? Or did she leave him. I can't keep track of everyone's domestic arrangements. I feel angry that Edith is flaunting her new lover and embarrassed to have thought she was still interested in me, and most of all panicked at just exactly what she and Robert are discussing about me.

Robert goes on "Ellingham, how are you? Can we talk in the morning – I am just going to take the lovely Edith for something to eat before she faints from hunger."

She smirks. I give her a black look. Before I can reply she breezily says "See you, then Martin. Give my best to LOUISA and your SON." They turn companionably and go out the door. Before I can respond I hear over the intercom "Mr. Ellingham to Theatre 3, Mr. Ellingham to Theatre 3." I sigh and head back to the changing rooms.

X X X X

By 6:30, Joan has gone. It was, in the end, nice to have an adult to talk with, once I had Will changed and fed and sleepy in my arms. And while I was feeding him, she had warmed up Bert's quiche and made a salad from the vegetables she brought, and brewed us a pot of the decaffeinated green tea that Martin insists I drink until Will is weaned. While we demolished the delicious meal, which was perfect except for the lack of a glass of wine to go with it, she'd filled me in on the news of the village - that Pauline called Doctor Brewster, the new GP, "Mr. Crab" for the number of times he had pinched her bum, how Janet Sawle had been found guilty of various crimes at her trial and would spend a couple years in prison and how Joe Penhale was trying to convince everyone that there was an illegal drugs ring operating out of the village. Completely Bodmin.

Then she told me Danny's mum was going to be married and had asked Joan to serve as matron of honor. "Imagine - at my age." She'd said. I had encouraged her and promised to go dress shopping with her.

She'd been very cagy about Martin. She sounded cross when she said "I can't imagine how he could run off to London and leave you and this beautiful boy to fend for yourselves."

"He didn't run off – we had quite a discussion about it. I encouraged him to take the job. And Will and I are doing just fine."

"Why on earth would you encourage him to leave, Louisa? I can't begin to understand. Don't you love each other?"

"I do love him, Joan. I love him with all my heart. But I can't have him regretting his whole life long he didn't have a chance to be a surgeon because of me, if that is what he really needs to do. He has to want to be here. I really hope he does. But I can't trap him here and then expect him to be happy about it."

Joan gave me a long look. I could see the wheels were turning in her head but couldn't tell if it was admiration or disapproval. After a long silence, she changed the subject.

"School starts in a month – have you sorted out what you're going to do with Will when you go back to work?

"Well Martin has been urging me to get an au pair – he'd like for there to be someone with me nights and weekends, not just while I am up at school. But I am not so keen on having a stranger just move in here. There's not a lot of room. I mean it's better than Mr. Routledge's cottage but I'd have to move Will in with me to be able to give the girl her own room. Poppy Matthews answered the notice I put up about a child minder. I think I'll give her a try and see how it goes."

She'd been reassuring about Poppy as a choice, and even remembered that Martin should be happy with Poppy as a choice since she had been at least adequate at filling in for Pauline at the surgery.

Now that she's gone, I gather up the laundry to run through the dryer. As I pass through the kitchen I notice the blinking light on the answerphone. I press play and hear Martin's voice. I love his voice. It is so reassuring. I am concentrating on his voice and miss what he is ringing about. I play the message again to hear what he says. Regretfully I notice he has only asked after Will. I grab the phone and ring him back. After three rings it goes to voicemail where an automated voice directs me to leave a message.

"Hello Martin. It's me. Will and I are fine. I am sorry I missed your call. Please ring us back when you get a chance." I pause, then add "We love you, you know. Good night Martin."


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer : Doc Martin and its characters etc. all belong to Buffalo Pictures and I own nothing but my own imagination.

Snapshots

Chapter 3

As I tap on Robert's door Tuesday morning, I still haven't figured out what he needed to see me about. The vision of him heading out with Edith last night coupled with the venom in her comments has me worried.

"Martin, come in" he says warmly, gesturing toward a chair. I note that his desk, unlike mine, has loads of papers on it and several photographs showing Robert with a large fish, Robert in a foursome on a golf course, Robert in a dinner jacket shaking hands with a cabinet minister. I don't see one with the wife I am almost certain he had, at least at one time. I realize I never really looked at his photos before.

"Robert" I say in reply, taking a seat and feeling like a miscreant school boy in front of the headmaster. "You wanted to see me?"

"Ah, yes, well I just wanted to check in and see how you are getting along. We've all been impressed with your diligence."

"It seems to be going smoothly" I say, grateful for his confidence but waiting for what would come next. It would not be in character for Robert to call me in just to compliment me.

"How's the haemophobia coming? It doesn't seem to be slowing you down any but it's not causing you any, er, _personal_ problems, is it?

Damn, Edith, I think. I force my face into its usual composure before replying. "None at all. Things are fine on that front." This is a lie of course, but the supreme effort it takes for me to keep it under control is really none of his business.

"Good, good. Now we've had some feedback from some of your colleagues. Most of it is positive, but there are a couple of critiques. Some are to be expected – a disgruntled registrar who wants it noted that you are rude, a scheduler who considers you a menace, and the director of nursing who filed a formal request that you stop calling her nurses stupid."

Typical, I think. "I will take that under advisement." I say.

"There was one other comment. Let me see" he says, shuffling some papers on his desk "ah, here it is. Bryony Pearson has noted that you seem to be spending your time diagnosing the staff and wonders if that is a good use of your expertise."

"Hmm." I say. I am thinking about Bryony Pearson, a tiresome, mousy woman about 5 years younger than I am who has made it abundantly clear that she believes she and not I should be Chief of Vascular Surgery. Just what I need – a personal vendetta.

"Yes, it seems she has observed you prescribing antibiotics for Mrs. Warren, advising the porter about his hernia truss, and examining a mole on the clavicle of a very embarrassed female medical student."

What has the cow been doing, following me? "Does she find that I have been derelict in my duties? Is there work I have not done that she is complaining about? If not, then I hardly see how these incidents reflect badly on me."

"No, no, she just seems to think there is a question of whether you are, shall we say, devoted to your surgical career, or instead intending to return to general practice."

I feel myself turning red and getting heated. "I would find that a more credible critique if anyone was actually complaining about my attention to my surgical patients."

"True, true. But Martin, we need to know if your heart is in this. You're a brilliant surgeon and we're lucky to have you. But the chief of vascular surgery has to have his head in the game and it's important that we know that you do."

I am saved from having to answer him by a telephone ring. Before he picks up he says "Thanks for coming by, Martin. Think about what I've said – we'll talk again soon."

I nod and leave as he turns to his call. In my head my thoughts are racing. Before I can construct an answer, I see Edith and Bryony in deep conversation in the hall outside my office. What are those two doing together?

"Edith, Miss Pearson" I nod as I try to keep walking past them into my office.

"Martin, how are you" gushes Edith and I wonder what she is up to. "Do you know Bryony?"

"Er, yes, yes I do." Of course I do, you vixen, I think. "I didn't know that you two were, er, acquainted."

"Oh, yes" says Bryony. "We serve on Imperial's Alumnae Council and have just come from a fascinating lecture on 'Impediments to the Advancement of Female Surgeons'." She looks at me with beady eyes, seeing me, I am sure, as the sole impediment to her own advancement. Stupid woman – I was not responsible for the hiring – talk to Robert if you have complaints.

"I see. Sounds like an interesting topic." Just what I need, a sisterhood united in making me miserable. "You'll have to excuse me; I am due in the theatre shortly."

"Really" says Bryony "are you performing surgery or examining sore throats?" She looks askance at me as she says this. Edith smiles cattily.

"An aneurysm repair, as it happens." I reply, tartly then enter my office and close my door. After doing so, I realize if I am due in theatre, I shouldn't have gone in my office. I look around for some random papers, pick them up, and storm out past them, as though I needed the papers for the operation. I may be imagining it, but it seems like they are giggling, as if two esteemed medical doctors in their forties should be giggling like school girls. I don't understand women.

X X X X X

Pauline has booked Will's appointment for his well baby check at 11:30 so we can have lunch after. As I push the pram up the hill, I see Joe Penhale coming out of the surgery, muttering to himself.

"Good morning, Joe" I say in greeting. I expect him to ask after Martin and to peek at Will. It is strange, then when instead he says "Sorry, Louisa, I can't talk now, suspicious activities to investigate, you know, official police business." Completely Bodmin, I think, as I park the pram and shift Will to the sling.

It is strange walking into the Portwenn surgery knowing Martin will not be there. The waiting room is empty and the lights are dimmer than I remember. Pauline is sitting at her desk watching her computer screen intently. From the sound of it, she is defeating a host of alien invaders on that video game. She looks up as I set my bag down and shift Will in the sling across my front.

"Louisa, oh how are you? Can I see him? Can I hold him?"

"Sure." I say, sinking into one of the chairs and unhooking the sling. "Pretty quiet day here."

"Nobody here but us chickens" she says taking Will carefully into her lap on the chair next to me. "Oh he's beautiful. He looks just like you, Louisa."

"I dunno, I see a lot of Martin in him too, but thanks the same."

"Well at least he doesn't have the doc's ears" she says, then blushes "maybe I shouldn't have said that."

"It's alright. I think Will looks like Will and is just perfect." I wonder where the patients are. I wonder where the doctor is. Not at all like when Martin was here.

"Are we next then?" I say to her.

"Oh, yes, you're the only appointment this morning. Let me call him." She goes to the stairs and calls up "Doc, are you there? Doc? Miss Glasson is here, your 11:30?" There is no answer. "I'll just ring his mobile." She goes to the phone and dials. I hear faintly from upstairs the sound of a ringing phone. It stops. "Doc, it's Pauline. Your 11:30 appointment is here." She pauses. "No, they're not early. It's bang on half 11 right now. Ok. I'll get them settled." She sighs and puts the phone down. "Would you like some tea? He'll just be a tick."

Not like Martin. "Tea would be lovely." I am secretly hoping it will be real tea, not the stuff Martin has me on at home. I put the sleeping baby back in the sling to have my hands free for the cup.

She wanders into the kitchen and comes back several minutes later with a tray with mugs and milk and biscuits. I help myself. Ahh – I haven't had real tea in months.

"Are you getting any sleep, then?" She asks

"Oh, he sleeps maybe three or four hours at a stretch now. Martin says his tummy has to grow big enough for him to eat more before he'll sleep longer."

She strokes his little hand. "When you see him sleeping all angelic like that, you can't help wanting one."

I laugh. "Talk to Al, not me, about that one, Pauline."

I hear rustling on the stairs, followed by footsteps. Doctor Michael Brewster appears, jogging down the stairs. He is shorter than Martin, so he doesn't have to duck as he comes down. He's wearing rumpled khakis, a white shirt and has a red tie knotted loosely around his neck. His eyes are a bit bloodshot and his hair could have been combed with an eggbeater. He must have had a long night at the Pub, I think. Definitely not like Martin.

"Madam. So sorry to keep you waiting" he begins, gallantly, "come through here and I'll be right with you."

I walk into the consulting room, noting he has a wooden desk and different artwork than his predecessor. Not much else has changed. He comes in with what I presume are my notes, sent down from Truro after my post-partum appointment last week.

"So Mrs. er Glasson is it, how can I help you?"

"It's Miss Glasson, actually. And I am here for my son's well baby check."

"Oh, yes, I see, Pauline has given me the form for a new patient." He has come around the desk to sit on the front edge next to me. He reaches toward the sling "Is this young specimen William Ellingham?" he asks, looking at the form.

"Yes, this is Will. He was eight weeks on Thursday."

"Is this the same Ellingham . . ." he trails off.

I sigh "Yes, Doctor Ellingham is his father."

"Bring him over to the scale then and undress him for me." I remember Joan's comment from last night, and I make sure that I stay far enough away to avoid Dr. Crab's pinch.

X X X X X

At two I am back at my desk, eating a wretched sandwich from the canteen. I look at my desk and think about Robert's. After a moment, I open my drawer and remove the photo of Louisa and Will. Just looking at it makes me happy. I take a deep breath and put it on the top of my desk where I can see it anytime. I smile. I can do this, I think.

My mobile rings. I am waiting to hear from Louisa about Will's appointment with Portwenn's new GP so I fish it out of my coat pocket. It is not Louisa's face but Auntie Joan's on the screen.

"Hullo Auntie Joan." I say, putting the remains of my sandwich down.

"Hullo, Marty. How is it in London?"

"Hmm. I haven't been out, but I think it is fine. Typical."

"Not the weather, Marty. How are you? How's the job? How's your flat?"

"I'm fine, work is satisfactory, the flat smells like cats. Anything else I can do for you?"

"No, I'm fine really. Did you hear about Moo's wedding?"

I have no idea who Moo is. And why this person would be called Moo of all things. "Whose wedding?" I ask, implying that I simply haven't heard her well.

"Moo Steele – Muriel, you know, Danny's mum? Honestly Martin, she's one of my best friends and one of your patients – I'd expect you to know who she is."

"Ah, yes, Mrs. Steele. Who's she marrying?"

"His name's Arnold Baker – he's one of the chaps she plays croquet and bridge with up at High Trees. Sweet man, really. Lost his wife about ten years back – before you came to Portwenn."

"Oh, I see." I pause "Isn't she a little old to be getting married?"

"Oh, Marty, you're never too old to fall in love. And when it happens at Moo's age, you just have to seize the moment. Anyway, they're getting married Sunday at High Trees and I am to be the matron of honor, of all things."

"Er, congratulations, I guess." I try to think how to change the subject. "I hear you had tea with Louisa yesterday."

"Oh, yes I did."

"Thanks for looking in on her. Did she look well? How was Will behaving?" I ask, anxiously.

"Will was his usual self. Completely charming and completely demanding. Louisa seemed frazzled but that's to be expected, I guess, under the circumstances."

"What circumstances?"

"Your leaving her to go to London is what circumstances. What were you thinking?"

I sigh. "We've been over this before, Auntie Joan. I had no choice to come up here. In Portwenn my house was let, my job was gone and my belongings were on a removal van. I had to come up and try to figure some things out and to make a living. Louisa knows this. She urged me to come, as a matter of fact."

"Marty, Marty, what are you thinking. You have unfinished business in Portwenn. What are you planning to do – commute on the weekends? It's nearly 5 hours each way on the train. And your work doesn't always let you get down here. Remember last weekend?"

Of course I remember. I spent the weekend reconstructing four members of a cycling club who were run over by a lorry. "I am trying, Auntie Joan, I really am. You're the one who told me 'a father in London is better than no father at all'."

"A father yes. But what about you and Louisa. She's a beautiful woman, Martin and she loves you. She's not going to wait forever."

"Did she say something?" I ask, in a slight panic.

"Of course not. But it's true all the same. If you want to be with her, you need to be WITH her. Not hundreds of miles away. You're not getting any younger, and this courtship is moving at a glacial pace."

"Auntie Joan, a year ago, Louisa and I had had one disastrous evening together. I wasn't sure I could even recover from that. I could never have imagined a year later all we've been through. It doesn't seem to be going slowly to me – it's spinning out of control in ten directions."

"Martin, I am going to give you one piece of advice and then I am going to shut my mouth and be done with it. You need to woo her. Focus on her as a woman. Don't just get by taking care of the baby and taking her and her feelings for you for granted– figure out what you two are after as a couple and really work on it."

"Is that all?" I ask archly.

"Yes. Martin, I love you like my own son, but you are so thick sometimes!"

"Thank you very much." I say, indignantly.

"Are you coming down this weekend? There's the bank holiday Monday so you could have a bit of extra time."

"I am planning to, if work doesn't get in the way."

"Make sure work doesn't get in the way. For goodness's sake, Martin. Are you or are you not the Chief surgeon? Don't you get the perk of making up the schedule? You need to do this."

I thought about what she was saying. "I'll see what I can do."

"Do that. And Marty, Danny Steele is going to be down for Moo's wedding. With the history they have, it wouldn't do for Louisa to have to go to the wedding alone."

Not Danny Steele. First Edith, and now him. Ghastly. All I need now is a call from my mother to completely ruin my day. I sigh and toss the sandwich in the bin.

"Yes Auntie Joan. I have to go now."

"Good-bye Martin, and think about what I said."

"Good bye."

As I end the call, the phone signals again, for an incoming text. It is from Louisa. All it says is "Hello Dad" with a photo attached. I open it and my heart is filled with joy. The photo shows Louisa in profile, smiling and holding Will in her lap, with his face turned up at her and the sea behind them. It must have been taken from someone sitting across from her at Bert's restaurant. I long to be there with them. I make up my mind - I have to be there this weekend. A thought crosses my mind and I pick up my office phone and dial.

"Bryony? It's Martin Ellingham.


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: Doc Martin and everything associated with it belongs to Buffalo Pictures. The poem quoted below is by ee cummings and belongs to him.

Snapshots

Chapter 4

Mr. Strain left Portwenn about a week after Will was born. Martin and his solicitor accomplished in two hours what I had been unable to pull off in several months of negotiations – a termination of his lease on my cottage. Perhaps there are some advantages to having a reputation for being rude and unreasonable. Strain had left town in a whirlwind, so when I come across an unfamiliar carton in my closet while searching for something to wear to Mrs. Steele's wedding, my first instinct is that it must be something Strain left behind in his haste. If the box had a lid, I might never have looked in it, but as I shift it so I can set it aside, I can see in the open top my own face looking back at me.

I stare at it. I don't recognize the framed photo in the box when I first lift it out. I am wearing jeans and a cardigan and a white veil on my head and I realize this must have been taken by someone – Pauline probably, or maybe Roger—on what would have been my wedding day. I am laughing and my eyes are bright. The frame is silver and a bit tarnished and I can see it has been handled a bit. A mystery.

I begin to rummage deeper in the box. I realize these are Martin's things when I pull out a framed photo of him with Joan that I recall seeing in his sitting room at the surgery. I am not sure how this got in my closet, but there was a lot of confusion on that moving day in June so anything is possible. I see two large brown envelopes, one older and more tattered and a newer, cleaner one, both bursting with contents, a couple exercise books tied with string, some record albums, an assortment of slim books and periodicals, and at the bottom a small wooden box. These must be his keepsakes, I think, stunned at the concept of a sentimental side to Martin. I am tantalized at the prospect about learning more about this very private man, but I also feel a pang of guilt at about considering such an invasion of his privacy. I rub my dusty hands on the seat of my jeans and rock back onto my heels. All's fair in love and war, Louisa, I conclude, and I carry the carton to the kitchen table.

The periodicals are medical journals, and as I examine them, I notice that each has an article authored by Martin. I knew he had been an eminent surgeon in London but had not really thought about what that meant. The articles are incomprehensible to the lay person, but the biography section is impressive and each has a nice photo of him, looking every bit the dignified professional, to accompany it. There are several award certificates in the box as well. There is a sense of modesty about him, I reflect, thinking about his reactions to grateful patients, which keeps him from hanging these on his walls.

The books are poetry, to my surprise, Larkin and Eliot and Cummings. From the looks of them, they are well thumbed. The exercise books are unlabelled and I am too timid to untie the strings. Are they diaries? More likely lecture notes, I think, and diagrams of surgical procedures. I set them aside to look at the albums. Keith Tippett, John Taylor and Miles Davis, Petula Clark and Dusty Springfield, The Righteous Brothers and The Spencer Davis Group. Who would have picked Martin as a lover of old jazz and blue-eyed soul? I regret not having a turntable to give these a listen.

The older brown envelope holds a treasure trove of photographs. I lay them out on the table in roughly chronological order, starting with Martin as a cherubic baby in a billowing christening gown. I smile at the toddler with chubby knees and a preposterous sunhat digging with a spade on the beach and the determined boy with blond curls on the blue tricycle. There is a lump in my throat as I see the solemn boy in a school uniform, his tie slightly crooked, holding not the hand but the skirt of the unsmiling dark haired beauty who must be his mother. He can't be more than seven, I think, and remember how jolly my own days at primary school were. Next comes grinning Martin, maybe nine, proudly pointing to a tent and Martin and Joan sitting companionably on the deck of a boat. The note on the back of what is clearly a rugger team photo says "House Second 15 – 1982", and I spy Martin looking gangly and glum in the back row. Martin with a spotty face and a look of fear poses next to a teenage girl with a short blue dress and an unfortunate perm; a tall, slim Martin shakes hands with an older man in academic dress; an earnest looking Martin stands on the steps of St. Mary's College of Medicine with a man who looks enough like Joan surely to be Martin's father. I hardly recognize Chris Parsons with a full head of hair, mugging with Martin in a pub; I can't help but recognize a smug-looking Edith with Martin in academic regalia at what must be a commencement. My emotions are ragged by the time I get to Martin in a dinner jacket accepting an award; Martin in a consultant's coat, lecturing to students; Martin and Pauline in front of the surgery; Martin and Joan in front of a Christmas tree. Forty-five years of Martin Ellingham in one fell swoop. I think of my own boy sleeping upstairs and wonder what the photos of his life will reveal. I pore over each one intently, searching for the one that will give me a clue to the real Martin, before stacking them up and putting them aside.

As I turn over the other envelope, I see "Wedding" written at the top in what I have come to recognize as Martin's hand. I am not sure I am ready for this, but I open it and pour the contents on to the table. Some of it I have seen before – the box with what had been my engagement ring, the newer box with the wedding band we'd chosen together, a copy of the program. Other things surprised me, like the plane tickets to Greece and the brochure from the resort where he'd booked our honeymoon. He'd said bring your passport and pack for sun and I had trusted him. I now see that the trust had been well-placed. The marriage license is there, and the notes for his toast, and the letter I'd written him calling it off, worn at the edges as if it had been read and re-read over and over again. There is a flat box, still wrapped in paper from the jewelers and card with my name on it. I see that the card is not sealed, and with tears in my eyes, I open it.

The card is the kind you can buy in a stationery store. The front has a picture of two clasped hands and says "To my bride on our wedding day" in script with curlicues and flourishes. The preprinted message reads "As we begin our life together, know that today you have made me the happiest man on Earth." Underneath, he has written "I have loved you since I first set eyes on you and I will love you always, Martin." I am sobbing openly now, tears running down my face. As I go to put the card gently back in the envelope, I notice a folded piece of paper inside. I slowly smooth it out and see it is a copy of a poem and that Martin has written "For Louisa" neatly at the top.

i carry your heart with me (i carry it in

my heart) i am never without it (anywhere

i go you go, my dear; and whatever is done

by only me is your doing, my darling)

i fear

not fate (for you are my fate, my sweet) I want

no world (for beautiful you are my world, my true)

and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant

and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows

(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud

and the sky of the sky of the tree called life; which grows

higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)

and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart (I carry it in my heart)

ee cummings

Louisa, you are a fool, I think, the tears blinding me. I called off the wedding thinking I could never find the sensitive side to Martin and it was here all along. I needed only to have trusted an hour or so more and I would have had this. The emotions wash over me in a way I hadn't thought possible since the terrible night I had walked down the hill in my wedding finery and away from the man who had written this. I blow my nose and dab at my wet cheeks and ponder.

The last thing in the carton is the small wooden box. I am not sure what to expect – a surgical instrument, a clock-maker's tools, a fountain pen? I take a deep breath thinking nothing can blindside me the way the last envelope did. But when I open it, I see that I am wrong. Inside are two things, the image of Will from the ultrasound scan I though Martin had taken to Edith and a dried up yellow flower I recognize immediately as the one I had playfully put in his buttonhole on the night of our first real date. I curl in a ball on the sofa and cry like a baby.

It will take time to process this. I know that to have any chance of building a real future with him, we need time together, time in the same place – the same house, perhaps even the same bed. I need a plan and I need one fast before he gets entrenched in London and finds the commute to Cornwall too much to be bothered with. I'm going to need help with this, I think, starting with Roger Fenn.


	5. Chapter 5

Snapshots

Chapter 5

It is Wednesday afternoon before I have a chance to ring Chris Parsons back. I feel a bit guilty about the delay. Chris has been a lifesaver more than once in my career transitions and I owe a great deal to him. He was one of the few in whom I confided my anguish over the haemophobia and the prospect of having to leave medicine, and from there he had mentored me through my re-training and the process of finding and keeping the job in Portwenn. He'd tracked down the post at Imperial and supported my decision to go back to surgery in the way only someone who's known you since you were a brash eighteen year old bent on a surgical career can do. He'd been at a PCT meeting at the hospital in Truro when Will was born, and was one of the first to congratulate me on becoming a father. And with my emotions running high over the prospect of leaving Louisa and Will, he talked me out of my plan to chuck the job and go on the dole in Portwenn and rang Imperial to remind them of their parental leave policy.

"Chris? It's Martin, Martin Ellingham."

"Hello Mart – great to hear from you. How's the big cheese in London then?"

"Oh, not much different than before. It's gratifying to be able to perform surgery. The paperwork's a bore, though. I guess I never thought about that aspect of the chief's job."

"So once a surgeon, always a surgeon, then, eh, Mart? No problems with the blood thing, I guess, then?"

"I'm, er, managing."

"Well good for you, then. Glad to hear it. You enjoying London?"

"Well, there's not much time to see it. The tube is disgusting as always, filled with germs and vagrants. The flat smells like cats. Not as sunny as Cornwall, of course."

"Well nothing's perfect. How are Louisa and the baby getting on? Have you been down to see them?"

"I'll be down for the week-end, actually. They're doing fine. He's growing. She tells me Brewster weighed him in at nearly 13 pounds last week."

"Excellent. Brewster, eh. Has she said much about him?"

"Not really. Just the one visit for a well-baby check. She mentioned the surgery was pretty quiet. I can't remember too many of those days myself."

"Did you get to know him at all, then? Maybe when he was buying out the surgery from you?"

"No. He's just leasing the building, actually. My solicitor and the estate agent handled it all – I never saw him."

"Interesting. Very interesting. So you still own the surgery?"

"Yes. Some issue with his cash flow he said. Why do you ask?"

"Just wondering. Getting a few comments, you know. Feedback to the PCT."

"All glowing, I suppose. The village couldn't wait to see the back of me and get in a new man who serves tea and flattery I suppose."

"Well a few folks have mentioned his, er, PERSONALITY, as a plus. But there's quite a few wishing you were still there. Wadebridge has had an uptick in registration, and the ambulance service is complaining about the increase in trips to Portwenn."

"I see. I wouldn't have guessed."

"Well I'm glad you rang because I actually have a couple questions and you're the only one who can really answer them, I think. Can you tell me how often you typically prescribed opioid pain meds and the like – tramadol, oxycodone, morphine, that sort of thing?"

"Well Pauline would have the records, you know, over at the surgery, but it wasn't very often. Not ideal choices for long-term pain management of course but there were a few chronic cases where it was helpful with a flare-up. Bert Large's sciatica, Sally Tishell's tortucollis, Lucy Smith's MS and a couple of arthritis and migraine sufferers who had some in reserve for the really bad days. There were always a handful of fishermen or farmers with injuries who might take it for a short recovery period. Post-surgical patients, of course, and cancer patients, but most of them were prescribed by consultants out of Truro. I kept some in the surgery, and in my medical bag too, for emergencies but that was mostly serum for injections. Maybe 8 or 10 prescriptions a month – probably less."

"That's very helpful. And did you typically hand the prescriptions to the patient or did you get them filled yourself and deliver the pills?"

"Well rarely the latter. There's simply not time for that many home visits. But it did happen occasionally. The patients who needed it were often unable to get around easily. Can I ask what this is about, Chris? Is someone complaining now, after I've gone?

"Oh, no, nothing about you at all, Martin. Just some issues with regulating the supply and distribution. There's been a rise in the amount prescribed and the PCT is just trying to see where that is coming from. You've been really helpful and I thank you."

"Glad to help."

"Any chance of buying you a pint when you're in Cornwall?"

"I'll have to see, er, what Louisa has planned. . ."

"Yes, well I'm sure you two have some, er, CATCHING UP to do, don't you. No worries – we'll get a chance I am sure."

"Yes, well, that would be nice."

"I'll let you go then, I'm sure you have a patient to see or something."

"Yes, well, I do. Good-bye, Chris."

"Bye, Mart. Talk to you soon."

As I put the receiver down, I wonder what that was all about. I don't get far in my musings as Mrs. Warren is knocking on my door.

"Come."

"Mr. Ellingham. Here are your letters to sign and a copy of next month's budget for your review. I have the theatre scheduling policy changes for your approval and the minutes from last week's surgical staff meeting. I've taken the liberty of marking where you need to sign and I need you to initial this – just there and then over here."

"Er, yes. Thank you."

As I go through the stack, I notice she is looking at the photo on my desk.

"Is that your baby, Mr. Ellingham? Very sweet."

"Ah, yes, yes it is."

"What's he called then?"

"William, erm, we call him Will mostly, for short."

"That's lovely. Is that your wife, then with him? I didn't know you were married. She's very pretty."

"That's Louisa, erm, Miss Glasson. His mother."

"I see." Her tone is a bit icier. There has to be a better way to answer that question, I think. But what to call Louisa has been a difficulty since I met her.

"I was meaning to tell you, Mrs. Warren, that I will be away for the long week-end. I will be leaving Friday after Mrs. Brown's procedure and back on Tuesday morning. Miss Pearson will be the senior surgeon here on Friday and Monday and on call over Saturday and Sunday, and Mr. Green and Miss Simpson are on the roster to assist her. And you have my mobile number of course if there is anything that urgently needs my attention."

"Very good. I hope we won't have to bother you. Are you visiting your son, then."

"Er, yes, in fact I am." I squirm a bit – not completely comfortable divulging my plans.

"Well I hope you enjoy your visit." She turns, picks up the papers and walks out. Before she closes the door, I call out "Mrs. Warren? One more thing."

"Yes, Mr. Ellingham" she says, standing in the doorway.

"Do you know of a book shop near the hospital, one that might have, er, children's books?" I feel my face reddening.

"Oh what a lovely thought. There's quite a nice one just across the street from the maternity wing entrance. You can't miss it – there's a gold book on the sign."

"Thank you. Er – that will be all." She isn't leaving. I look about for some work to return to so she will leave and I won't have to say anything more. Not seeing any, I pick of the phone receiver as if preparing to make a call. She gets the hint and disappears out the door and down the hall.

X X X X

After I have placed two carotid stents and visited all my post-surgical patients in hospital, I have time for a break. I decide to track down that book shop Mrs. Warren had recommended. I have discovered I am deficient in my knowledge of nursery rhymes. They come instinctively to Louisa – probably part of the primary school teacher's curriculum at university or something. But when I am with Will, I am at a loss at how to talk to him. I marvel at Louisa – the ease with which she plays with him and sings to him and says silly nonsense to calm him. I long to have the same chance to bond with him as she has done, and yet feel wholly inadequate for the task. Nothing in my background has remotely prepared me for fatherhood.

I find the book shop without trouble, just as Mrs. Warren predicted. There seems to be a children's area in the back, by the looks of the colorful covers on the books and the plush animals and puppets arranged on the shelves beside them. I thumb through some, not even sure what I am searching for. A middle-aged woman with a blue nametag approaches me eventually, perhaps noticing my helplessness.

"Are you looking for something particular, then, sir?" she asks.

"Ah, perhaps a book of nursery rhymes, if you have one? For a gift."

"Very nice. We have a selection over here. Were you thinking of the traditional kind, or perhaps something more modern." I have no idea, really. I blindly point at one that looks impressive, with heavy paper and a shiny blue paper cover. "That one, maybe?"

"A collection of Mother Goose. Always a classic. A nice choice sir."

"Do you think it is suitable? I mean as a gift. For a baby."

"Oh, yes, sir. A staple of every child's book shelf I should think."

"Er yes, just one thing. Does it have the one about the, er, the . . . the piggies?" My voice drops on this last word, mortified to have said it aloud in a public place. But I am desperate.

"The piggies, did you say, sir?"

"Er yes." I am forced to go on "His mother, that is the baby's mother. She tells him the one about the piggies. You know, the ones who go to market and eat a joint of beef or something. I just wanted to make sure that one in particular is in the book."

"Oh, yes, I see. Let me just look here in the contents. Ah yes, there it is. Page nineteen – This little Piggy. Is this the one you were after?" She shows me the page. I have no idea what I am after but I know I will not be able to go on discussing this with her.

"Yes, this one. This will do the trick."

"Very good sir." She points me toward the queue for the cashier. I join the line with the book under my arm. As I wait, I hear a familiar voice behind me. My stomach turns.

"Mr. Ellingham. What a surprise. I didn't think you read anything other than the BMJ."

"Miss Pearson." I nod and turn back to waiting.

"Find a good read then, for your holiday?"

"A gift, actually."

She reads the title under my elbow. "A Child's Mother Goose." Interesting choice. "

The encounter might have ended there, but the clerk comes up just at that moment.

"Sir. You were the one wanting the book with the rhyme about the 'piggies' weren't you?"

"Ah yes." I have no choice but to admit it. I feel Bryony tittering behind me and my ears going red.

"Well it's just that after you left, I remembered that we have this sweet puppet that goes along with the rhyme with all the sweet piggies and since you were particularly asking about that one, I thought you might want to add it to your purchase."

I want to sink into the floor. No way out of this one. I grab the puppet from the startled clerk and nod my head. I cannot speak. I hear Bryony's titter erupt into guffaws and imagine the stories that will be going round the staff room by tea time. Mortified, I slink toward the clerk with my book and my piggy puppet in tow.


	6. Chapter 6

Snapshots

Chapter 6

I'm not sure I will ever really be comfortable driving Martin's car. His first trip back from London, he left it here for me to use, claiming he had no need of it in the city. "It's really just a nuisance to park, and I can walk to work or take the tube. No one expects a surgeon to make home visits" he'd said. I acknowledged that one really doesn't have a need for a car in London, recalling my own recent experience there. I couldn't help suspect, though, that this gesture was really a disguised way of keeping Will and me from accepting a lift. I don't think Martin will ever recover from the Tommy's Taxi incident.

So it was in Martin's car that Joan and Will and I set off yesterday to a dress shop in Delabole to find Joan some finery for her role as Muriel Steele's matron of honor. She found a lovely jacket in purple linen to wear with a grey skirt she already had. She talked me into looking too. I settled on a simple sleeveless dress with wide tank straps and a scooped neckline that falls to a gored ballet skirt. It is a lovely moss green and the fabric is a soft jersey which is a bit forgiving to my baby-enhanced curves. I justified it to myself by noting that I could wear it to school with a jacket or cardigan, but secretly I tried to imagine Martin's reaction to seeing me in it on Sunday.

I thought about looking at lingerie too – nothing crazy but maybe a lacy nightdress cut to accommodate my bustier figure. But I just couldn't go there in Joan's company. She's not a prude, but I know I would be uncomfortable choosing something with her along, and I am sure Martin would be horrified if Joan knew what I was wearing for his benefit. You're getting ahead of yourself, Louisa, I tell myself. Martin hasn't shown any interest in more than a chaste kiss or a gentle squeeze since Will was born. And nearly a year has passed since our engagement and those precious nights of passion we spent together that resulted in the sweet boy sleeping in the back seat. Maybe he won't be tempted until I've lost all the baby weight, I think. Maybe he can't abide stretch marks. Maybe he can only see me as a mum, now, and not as a lover. Maybe he only carries in his mind the image of me giving birth and can't see my body as a source of pleasure any longer.

I smile ruefully as I speculate about Martin's intentions. Will and I are back on the road, off to retrieve Martin from the train bringing him back to us for the long week-end. I am inordinately excited about this. Joan spoke to him this morning before he got on the train and told him she would be glad to fetch him home. He isn't expecting us and I am hoping it will be a happy surprise. But I have learned it is not always possible to guess what Martin will think about anything.

X X X X X

I've gotten some paperwork done on the train, but as we travel west and get ever closer to my destination, I feel the cares of the hospital slipping away. It reminds me of the way I felt on the train to Cornwall to see Joan during a school holiday – all excitement and anticipation as the loneliness fades away with the miles. I speculate about how we will spend the time, whether I will be able to see a difference in Will, and mostly about how Louisa will be. I worry about her health and whether she's doing too much. I worry how she will feel reconnecting with Danny Steele. I worry how she will react to me. Will I say the wrong thing? Will I spoil it again? I try to push the worries aside and focus on the feeling of happiness welling up in my chest at the prospect of this holiday.

Long before the train pulls into the station, I have gathered my things. I have my small suitcase, a messenger bag with some papers, and a green plastic carrier bag with presents for Louisa and Will. I am ready to jump off when the train pulls in. As I disembark, I scan the platform for Auntie Joan. When I don't immediately see her, I am not concerned. With all the work on the farm and the bed and breakfast guests besides, I know she keeps herself quite busy. I won't mind waiting, I think. But then as the other passengers are walking away I see Louisa standing at the end of the platform with the pram beside her, looking radiant and smiling at me. She is a vision of loveliness. Her hair is loose, down around her shoulders, blown slightly in the breeze. She's wearing something soft and floaty and she looks like an angel.

"Louisa!" I greet her by taking her hand. I smile at her. I want to embrace her and hold her tightly but, thinking that might be better saved for a private moment, I satisfy myself brushing her cheek with my lips.

"Hello, Martin." She puts her hands on my shoulders and kisses my cheek in return. There is electricity in her touch.

"I was expecting Joan," I say, looking around.

"I hope you aren't disappointed."

"No! Not at all. Just surprised. Nothing's amiss, is it?"

"Everything's fine. She's just busy at the farm and Will and I had nothing to do this afternoon so we thought we'd come meet your train."

"Er, good of you to come." I look down at the pram. Will is sleeping peacefully.

"I can tell he's grown. Look at how full his cheeks are now."

"Well he certainly eats well enough!" she chuckles.

"You look, er . . ." I stammer, searching for the right word. Stunning, I think. Gorgeous, I think. Marvelous, I think. "Fit." I say. She nods and looks down at her feet.

"The car's this way" she says as she uses her foot to switch the brake off on the pram and spin it around."

"Ah, yes." I follow her to where the Lexus is parked, and as she shifts Will to the safety seat in the car, I load my bags and the pram into the boot. Coming around to the driver's side door, I stop to admire the view of her backside, as she leans into the car with one knee on the seat to buckle the straps. As she backs out and shuts the door, we are facing each other, and standing very close. I take her face in my hands and kiss her softly on the mouth.

"I'm glad to see you" she murmurs. "I've missed you."

"Me too" I whisper.

As I back the car out of the car park, Louisa mentions that Joan has an unexpected crop of guests for bed and breakfast tonight. "What with the long weekend, beds are scarce in Portwenn."

"I hope she saved me a spot" I say.

"Well she did mention something about a pitching tent in the pasture like you did as a boy" Louisa replies, and it takes a moment before I realize she is teasing me.

"That might not be bad if the weather is fine" I counter, hoping she will realize I got the joke.

"Or . . ." she begins, and then shifts in her seat.

"Or what?"

"Well if you want something quieter, er, well, you could stay with us, with Will and me, I mean. If you wanted."

I am pleased at the invitation.

"Erm, there's the sofa, or the futon in Will's room . . ." she trails off, still studying her hands. She's mentioned all the beds in the family except the one I want most to occupy.

"Yes. That would be good. Thanks."

After that, she seems to relax. She chatters a bit about people in the village. I don't really hear what she's saying – I just enjoy the sweet sound of her voice. I smell her scent and sense her presence. I am happy simply to be here.

She says something about her friend Amy. I don't remember much about her many friends, but I can recall that Amy lives in Truro.

"When did you see Amy, then?" I ask, trying to cover my distraction and re-enter the conversation.

"Last Wednesday, when I went up for my post-partum check at the obstetric clinic."

"Oh, yes." I pause. There is something weighing on my mind and I don't know how to ask it. "Was everything fine at your visit? No problems, I mean."

"I'm fine, Martin. Good as new."

"No limitations, then, on your, erm, activities, are there?" I ask.

She looks up at me and smiles. "No, they told me I could resume whatever, er, activities, I might want to."

"Good. That's very good." I reach out with my left hand and take her hand and squeeze it.

X X X X

As we walk through the door to the cottage, Will is fussing.

"He's hungry, I think. I have a bottle if you'd like to feed him."

"Ah, yes, that would be good" says Martin, setting down his bags. He takes Will from me and arranges himself on the sofa in the lounge. I bustle around in the kitchen, warming the bottle and finding a cloth and the antibacterial gel.

"You might want to take your jacket off. In case he spits up, you know." I say, holding out my hands to take Will.

"Good idea." He stands up and, considering Will, removes his jacket and then wipes his hands with the gel.

"That's better," he says, settling back down. Will drinks the bottle hungrily.

"I'll just hang this up for you, then, shall I?" I go to the cupboard under the stairs for a hanger. Martin has eyes only for his son. He looks up at me blankly and says "Are you sure I'm doing this right?"

"Relax, Martin, you're a pro at this by now."

I go back to the kitchen to see about dinner. I slice tomatoes and cucumbers and onions from Joan's bounty and season them with vinegar and olive oil and sea salt. I glance back at Will and Martin from time to time to see how they are getting on, and I am gratified to see that all is going well.

When Will finishes drinking, Martin lays the cloth across his shoulder before lifting Will up to wind him. I smile, recalling how Martin learned that lesson the hard way in the early days, keeping the dry cleaner busy with milk on the shoulders of his suits.

"I, er, brought Will a present" he says.

"How lovely." I am touched. He goes to the green carrier bag he has brought and pulls out a big blue book and something made of soft pinkish plush. I dry my hands and go over to see.

"It's, er, Mother Goose" he says. "I thought I could learn a few of these along with Will." He doesn't quite meet my eyes.

"That's brilliant, Martin" I say in my best encouraging tone. "I'm sure Will will love having you read to him."

"There's this puppet thing too" he confesses. "I'm not really sure what to do with it, but the lady in the shop seemed to think it was a good idea."

I take a look and see it is a glove with five tiny finger puppets. I immediately realize what it is and I am touched. Has he listened to me play with Will and his tiny toes?

"I think it goes on your right hand" I say, picking up the toy and placing it over Martin's big fingers. "See, this little piggy goes to market." I wiggle the puppet on Martin's thumb as I say it. Will kicks his feet in appreciation.

"And this little piggy stays home." I wiggle the one in the nightcap on Martin's index finger.

"This little piggy has roast beef." Martin is getting the hang of this and this time he wiggles the chubby one on his middle finger.

"That's good, Martin!" I cheer. "This little piggy has none." Martin's ring finger waves the puppet and Will reaches up his hands.

I take a breath. "And this little piggy goes wee, wee, wee all the way home!" Martin waggles his pinky. I tickle Will's tummy. Martin looks at me in amazement, then back at the cradled baby in his left arm.

"Why don't you read to him while I get this omelet going?" My heart is filled with joy watching Martin interact with his son. He opens the book and begins reading aloud.

"Pussycat, pussycat, where have you been? I've been to London to look at the Queen. Pussycat, pussycat, what did you there? I frightened a little mouse under her chair." He frowns "Not bloody likely with those corgis around, eh Will? I suppress a giggle and keep breaking eggs.

"Let's see – here's another one. Three blind mice, see how they run! They all ran after the farmer's wife. She cut off their tails with a carving knife. Have you ever seen such a sight in your life as three blind mice?" He pauses "Well that's a pleasant thought, isn't it. Especially at dinner time. Who writes this rubbish anyway, Louisa?" he says, grumpily.

"Oh, Martin, it's just for fun. It's not real."

He turns a page. "This one looks better. Rock-a-bye baby in the treetop. When the wind blows, the cradle will rock. When the bough breaks, the cradle will fall, and down will come baby, cradle and all." He makes a sound of disgust and slams the book shut. "What are we trying to do, give him nightmares? I mean, really, is this the way to comfort a baby – telling him he's going to fall out of a tree and fracture his skull?" He huffs.

I can no longer contain myself. The laughter pours out of me. I am laughing so hard tears are running down my cheeks. I catch sight of Martin's outraged expression and it only makes me laugh harder. I go to them and perch myself on the arm of the sofa. I lay my head on Martin's shoulder and embrace them both. "Oh, Martin. I've missed your particular point of view" I say, trying to control myself. I kiss his forehead and then do the same for Will.

He puts the book down and hands me the baby. "I've got a present for you too, Louisa" he says as he digs in the carrier bag. "Though I don't know if you deserve it after laughing at me" he adds, grumpily.

"Why thank you Martin, that's very sweet." I watch him pull out a box about six inches long in each direction. I try not to get my hopes up – the electric breast pump was not exactly the romantic gift I was hoping for from him when Will was born. He hands me the box and hoists Will to his shoulder. "Open it" he urges.

I open the package and find in the tissue a small gilt box with a porcelain plaque on the top, painted with a dark haired woman in a long white dress, holding a baby in old-fashioned ruffles on her lap, looking up at the night sky.

"Oh, its' beautiful" I sigh.

"Lift the top" he instructs.

As I lift the lid of the box, I hear music. It takes a few notes before I realize it plays Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star. "Oh, Martin. Thank you!"

"Er, yes, you're welcome. I found it in an antiques shop in London. Victorian, I think."

"Imagine – it still plays so clearly after all that time."

"Well, er, it didn't actually – not when I bought it. I had to take it home and fix up the mechanism, replace the cylinder and all . . ." he looks uncomfortable.

I go to him and kiss his cheek. "That makes it even more special. Good things are worth working on. Thank you. I think it's the nicest present I've ever received."


	7. Chapter 7

Disclaimer: Doc Martin and everything else belong to Buffalo Pictures

Author's Note: Thanks for reading and for your feedback. I am having fun with this. I don't want to know about any spoilers for Season 5.

Snapshots

Chapter 7

Smiling, cooing, holding up his head – I tick off the developmental milestones on my mental checklist as I play with Will. "I think he needs a change," I say, sniffing suspiciously at the bottom of my offspring. "I'll just take care of this. Maybe he'll even go down for a bit while we eat."

"Mind your tie, Martin" she reminds me.

"Ah, yes, better take that off" I agree, loosening it with one hand as we go up the stairs "No need to risk dangling it in the mess."

When I get him upstairs, I collect the necessary supplies as he watches me from the cot and gurgles.

"Well that is nasty" I observe when I get down to the task. "Not as nasty as Mr. Porter's pig, mind you. I guess if I can face that for your Mum, I can take care of this for you." I remove the offending garment and remember to keep him covered with the replacement so he doesn't spray me.

"No socks in the poo, please" I remind him, grabbing his flailing feet. "I remember that maneuver. I guess I have learned a few things about babies after all." With the new nappy in place and fastened securely, I start looking around for a clean sleeper to dress him. "Now I wish I could learn as much about mummies. Maybe you could put a good word in with your Mum for me, hmmm? You're a lucky boy, you know, having her for your mum. They aren't all like that, you know." He smiles at me and I know he agrees.

X X X X X

I eavesdrop on Martin and Will via that baby monitor as I lay the table and arrange the food. I wonder what in world he means about Mr. Porter's pig and resolve to find out that story. There is a lump in my throat when I hear him ask Will about mummies. I hear him wish Will good night and the tap of the door shutting.

I go to the stereo and flip on the CD that Roger was so good to put together for me according to my specifications – quiet mood music inspired by the records in Martin's collection. The first song is Unchained Melody and as it starts, I hear Martin coming down the stairs. He nods appreciatively at the table, then goes to the sink to wash his hands.

"I'm famished" he admits.

"Well, come and sit down then; it's all ready."

I pour mineral water in glasses for each of us and bring them over. We sit across the table, companionably, not saying much. I realize what a pleasure it is to actually sit down and share a meal – not just grabbing a bite over the sink between parenting tasks.

"This is very good, Louisa" he says, holding up his fork.

"Thank you, Martin. I thought you might miss all the fresh produce we have here in Cornwall – I know I missed it when I was in London."

After we finish eating, I clear the plates and pour water in the coffee pot. Together we tidy the kitchen and do the washing up. The music plays on, Unforgettable slipping into The Look of Love, low and jazzy with a saxophone. The sun is setting and the room is growing darker. Martin is trying not to stare at me.

"Martin, come and dance with me!" I say, pulling at his hands to draw him closer to me.

"What! Er, no, no, I can't Louisa – I really don't know how" he protests.

"Martin" I persist "there is no one here but us and I promise to close my eyes. I'm not asking you to dance in public – just stand up and hold me – here, just the two of us."

He reluctantly joins me. "I'm never sure where to put my hands" he grumbles.

"Shush!" I say, and take his hands firmly and put them on my waist. I wrap my arms around his neck and press my face against his shoulder, eyes closed. He is holding himself very stiffly. I ignore this and simply enjoy being close to him, inhaling his scent. I listen to the music and my hips can't help but match the rhythm.

Ever so slowly he relaxes. I feel it in his shoulders first. Then he moves his cheek against my hair and I breathe a sigh of relief that he is going along with this. We sway a little together. We're not ready for Britain's Got Talent or anything, but we're managing in that "teenagers slow dancing at a school mixer" sort of way. I imagine we might of have danced this way at our wedding reception if we'd ever gotten that far.

After a while, he strokes my back and then my hair, then kisses the top of my head. I tilt my head to look up at him and his hand goes to my cheek. With infinite tenderness, he kisses me softly. "Louisa" he says, his voice husky. I try to wrap all my emotions – love and longing and loneliness—into returning the kiss. I am falling into the kiss with my whole being, in the same way I fell in love with this man. The feeling is like sunshine after a long, gray winter. He looks into my eyes and I am lost. I take his hand and lead him towards the stairs, and have a feeling of déjà vu, the same flutters of anticipation dance in my belly as did the night he asked me to marry him.

X X X X X

As we reach Louisa's bedroom, I press her shoulders against the doorframe and kiss her deeply. I can't help myself – I have been longing for her since the day I first looked in her eyes. I appreciate her ardent response and think that perhaps this time I've succeeded. This time she will know how I feel about her. This time I won't muck things up. "Martin!" she says in a strangled voice. I tighten my embrace; there is no doubt as to the effect she is having on me.

The baby cries. The sound is like a gunshot. We spring apart instantly, almost guiltily. She looks down at herself in horror and I wonder what it is that I have done. As the baby cries louder, I realize what has happened as the wet stains spread darkly across her dress.

"I'll go" I say. "You can, er, change if you like."

She nods, her head still down, recovering. I notice her lips are swollen a bit and red, almost bruised from kissing and marvel that it is me who has done this.

I scoop Will out of his cot. He is wet, a problem I remedy efficiently, giving Louisa a moment to herself. I carry him down the hall to her bedroom still crying, and find her in her dressing gown, sitting propped up against the head of the bed.

"There's my good boy" she says, focused intently on him. She gets him situated and fiddles with the pillows. I stand in the doorway, transfixed at the sight. It is amazing what the human body can do. I watch Louisa and envy her a bit for her innate ability to nourish and nurture him in this way. I envy Will too, for his closeness to her and the look on her face as she watches him and strokes his cheek.

"I'll, er, give you some privacy" I say, reluctantly.

"Don't go" she says, alarmed. "I need your help" she adds after a short pause.

"Oh, does he need a change again?" I ask.

"No – I need your help feeding him."

I am perplexed. "Lactation is clearly one thing I'm not really, erm, equipped to help with" I respond.

"Come sit next to me" she says, patting the space beside her on the wide bed. "Just here."

I slip off my shoes and sit down. "Like this?"

"Now make us a lap" she says, tapping my knees. And before I realize what she is after, she's scrambled into my lap and laid her back against my chest, with the baby in her arms. Reflexively, my arms go round her waist. And suddenly, I am inside the bond of love between them that was the subject of my envy. I can feel her strength as she holds him, see his throat as he swallows greedily, hear the little noises they both make. Her hair is fragrant and soft and hangs down to tickle him. I wonder whether it would be indecent to kiss her neck now. I want this moment to last forever.

After he finishes, he drifts off with a dribble of milk on his chin. She gently wipes it and rubs his back. Even his belches sound sweet.

She lays back against me with the sleeping child in her lap and my arms around them both. I am the most at peace I can recall. I give her an affectionate squeeze and I am dismayed to feel her flinch ever so slightly.

"Are you very sore?" I ask, concerned. "Or in discomfort? I just . . ." I don't get to finish because she jerks forcefully away.

"Martin!" she says "Why do you always do this?"

"Do what?" I ask, genuinely confused.

"Spoil it! Take a tender moment and turn it into something – something CLINICAL. Stop trying to DIAGNOSE me!" She has pulled herself to the edge of the bed and is clinging to Will. Her hands are fisted and her shoulders seem to be shaking.

Now you've done it, Martin, I think to myself. Why break your perfect record of ruining relationships now? Never knew what she saw in a crusty old bugger like you anyway.

"Louisa, I'll go" I begin "I didn't mean to upset you, and you obviously don't want me here." My voice trembles a bit with emotion. I consider leaving it at this but I wade in with one more explanation. "But Louisa, just to be clear, I wasn't trying to diagnose anything. I was worried about hurting you. I couldn't bear it if I hurt you." I pick up my shoes to put them on. Her shoulders sag and I'm not sure what she's going to do.

"Martin, stay right here and don't move a muscle." It is her headmistress voice and I know better than to disobey. She gathers the baby and goes down the hall. I hear her kissing him goodnight and putting him in the cot, and then I hear her voice again.

"Look here then, Will. Mummy needs you to sleep like a champ tonight. Daddy's home and Mummy needs to show him how much she misses him. So give your old Mum a break then and have a good long rest, right?"

I hold my breath as she comes back into the bedroom. She stops to switch off the light. I hear the slither of silk as her dressing gown slides to the floor. Her skin glows like alabaster in the moonlight.

"Louisa" I say "I am . . ."

"Shush, Martin" she says, placing a finger on my lips. "Just shush."


	8. Chapter 8

Snapshots

Chapter 8

The sun has never been brighter. The sky has never been bluer. Portwenn has never appeared as picturesque. Martin has never looked so dapper. Will has never smiled so sweetly. This is the morning of all mornings, I think, as we stroll down the hill with Will in the pram. It helps that Will gave us an unprecedented six straight hours of sleep before waking to feed. It helps that there were two of us to handle the morning routine. It helps that Martin put to rest once and for all my fears that he would be turned off by the changes in my body. I am smiling the smile of a woman who has been well and truly seen to, and I feel like I am floating on air.

I casually loop my arm through his as he pushes the pram. He seems startled by the contact, but then smiles at me. It boggles the mind that a man who can spend the night making me sing with pleasure can also be so shy about physical contact outside the bedroom.

We wave to Penhale as he zooms by in his Rover. He gives us an odd salute and doesn't stop. As we come by the post-office, we run into Eddie and Gloria Rix. Eddie has his arm in a plaster.

"Morning, Doc, morning Miss Glasson. Is this the little nipper then?" says Gloria, peeking in the pram.

"Mr. Rix, Mrs. Rix" says Martin.

"Yes, this is Will" I say proudly.

"He's lovely, innt he?" she says. I smile back and tuck his blanket in more tightly.

"Er – how's the arm, then?" Martin asks Eddie. "Another, er, accident?" Am I seeing things, or is Martin blushing as he asks this?

"Oh, you know, doc, same old same old" replies Eddie, who also seems to be pinking up a bit.

"New doc taking good care of things for you then?" Martin asks.

"Oh, we ended up at hospital for this one – needed an X-ray and all" pipes up Gloria.

"Good, good then." Martin replies. He looks at them for a long moment, then starts pushing the pram down towards the harbor.

"Enjoy your Saturday" I say as I take a couple quick steps to catch up with him "Bye, now."

As we meander along looking out at the boats and the harbor, we see a pair of dolphins cavorting. I lift Will up to see them – not that he'll remember this, of course, but I will. Martin uses his mobile to snap a photo of me waving Will's hand to the dolphins. I overhear a couple of tourists going by commenting about the sweet local families and I grin. There are lots of tourists today. Old and young, British and foreign, families and couples and one or two on their own. I notice a couple of unfamiliar young men in deep conversation and wonder what they are here for. They look too pale for surfers. A couple of down-from-town gits, I think. Boy are they missing out on a beautiful view as they scowl at their mobiles. What a waste of a trip.

"Louisa, Martin, how wonderful to see you!" It is Roger, with the twins pulling on his hands. They are here to see the dolphins too.

"Roger!" I smile warmly. Martin shakes Roger's hand. The twins clamor to see the baby who is to them as interesting as the dolphins and much closer, so I sit on a bench with Will on my lap as they swarm him and beg to kiss him. I can see Martin's unease with this and imagine him cataloging the germs that might be found on toddlers. I dig for some wipes in my bag and tell them if they want to touch the baby, they need to wash their hands. They oblige and spend a couple happy minutes telling Will all about the dolphins with the air of authority possessed only by three-year olds. It is a magical moment.

"How's Maureen keeping?" I ask Roger.

"Oh, fine, fine. Saturday morning is Daddy's time with the kiddos and it gives her a chance to get her hair done or go see her mum or just take a breath. It's special for me too to have them both on my own." He looks pointedly at Martin. "Are you two having a nice visit?"

"Lovely, thanks" I say, giving him a conspiratorial wink.

"Good to be back in Portwenn" says Martin, unexpectedly. I look at him and he is watching Will with the other children in amazement. I take his hand and give it a squeeze. The twins have now spotted the ice cream stand and taken off running so Roger makes his apologies and sprints after them.

Pauline has made me promise to bring Martin by the surgery, so we head in that direction. On the way, Martin wants to stop by the chemist. I roll my eyes and tell him I will take Will and go on to the surgery so I can have some quiet to feed him. As I push the pram, I idly note that Penhale is in deep conversation with a man in a blue suit across from the bakery. Probably some lost soul needing directions.

When I get to the surgery it is closed. I knock but there is no answer. Usually they are open until one on Saturdays but maybe there was an emergency. Could be Pauline's out on a lifeboat drill or something. I sit down on the steps to wait for Martin. When he comes up, he hands me a bag to put in the pram and gives me a look of helplessness. I open the bag, see the athlete's foot cream, and smile. "I told you so" I say, wickedly. "It will be easier to have another baby than to try to buy condoms off Mrs. Tishell." He mutters something about London and his ears turn quite red.

X X X X X

Having found the surgery closed, we stop by the chip shop to see Mrs. Cronk and Peter. Business is booming with all the tourists in town, and Mrs. Cronk can't really stop to chat. But we sit down with Peter at a table outside while we wait for a lull in the traffic to order our own lunch. When Will's fussing becomes more frantic, Louisa gives me a pleading look, and I realize she wants me to take Peter away so she can arrange herself to feed Will discreetly. I ask him to walk with me a bit and fill me in on his mother's asthma. He readily agrees and I pat Louisa's shoulder as I lead him off to look at the water.

"She's doing pretty well," he says. "Not too many attacks. We haven't been to hospital for the nebulizer all summer." As he is speaking, I notice he is awfully pale for a Cornish boy at the end of the summer holidays.

"How are _you_ feeling these days, Peter?" I ask, taking a closer look at him.

"Oh, I've been a little flu-ish, but nothing major."

"Can you tell me what you mean by flu-ish? Temperature? Headache? Fatigue? Nausea? Any Cough?"

"Headache definitely. Kind of tired feeling, but probably because I've been helping Mum out. No cough." He replies, quizzically. As he raises his hand to run his hand through his hair, I notice a livid bruise on his arm.

"Where'd you get that, then?" I ask him, becoming more concerned.

"I dunno. Must have bunged it against the fryer or summing."

He is wearing shorts and sandals, so it is relatively easy to glance at his ankles. I see the petechiae around them immediately, and my heart sinks for him.

"Peter, have you been to see Dr. Brewster about this flu?"

"No. Nothing much he can do for flu, is there?"

"I'm going to have Pauline call your mum and make an appointment for you to go and see him. I think Dr. Brewster is going to want to check you out." I don't want to alarm him or his mother but I know he needs to be seen right away to rule out leukaemia. It's not definite – he could just have a viral illness. But the symptoms are troubling.

He looks at me a bit strangely, but says nothing. There is no one at the counter now, so I go up with him and place an order for Louisa and me. Not the most healthful choice for lunch, but I am humoring her. Part of Joan's instructions for wooing. I decide this is not the time to worry Mrs. Cronk, and make a mental note to talk to both her and Pauline on Monday before I head back to London.

I have to admit there is charm in sitting outdoors in the sunshine and eating lunch. Perhaps it is the company of Louisa and Will. She is smiling and chattering to him, and I am basking in the glow of just being in her company. It never ceases to amaze me that I have permission to look at her, to hear her voice and smell her scent and even to touch her. It is a giddy feeling to reach across the table and take her hand and know that it will not be rebuffed, that it may even possibly be welcomed. She picks up her napkin and reaches up to wipe my mouth "You have a spot of something – just there." It is getting easier to let her touch me, too.

After lunch, with Will dozing in the pram, we slowly walk back to Louisa's. As we pass by the florist, we see Mrs. Steele coming out carrying a long white box.

"Muriel! How is the blushing bride to be?" cries Louisa, with genuine affection.

"Louisa!" is the reply, "Let me look at you! Oh how beautiful you look – don't tell me you just had a baby, because I won't believe it." She peeks in the pram and exclaims how handsome Will is and how clever Louisa is to have had such a darling child.

I nod to her and say "Mrs. Steele. I hope you are feeling well."

"And little Marty. I'm glad you'll be able to join us tomorrow for the festivities."

"Er, yes, thanks for the invitation,"

Just then Danny pulls up in his car. It is a silver Jaguar that is obviously new and expensive. He jumps out and comes around to take his mother's arm.

"Hullo, Mum. Lou – how wonderful to see you!" He is staring at Louisa in a way that makes me despair. He is wearing designer jeans and a cashmere jumper and some kind of complicated sandals. I feel impossibly old and cretinous next to him and I cannot imagine why Louisa would ever be with me when she could have married him.

"Hello, Danny." Louisa says. The look on her face is hard to read. Danny looks in the pram and says "and who do we have here? Is this your sprog, Lou? Martin, you are a lucky dog, old man. I have to hand it to you Lou; you made a really beautiful baby."

"Er, thanks, Danny. Martin may have had something to do with it too" she adds, looking at me sideways. Just then a petulant voice comes from the interior of Danny's car.

"Dan-nny? Are you com-ming?" There is a faint foreign accent. Italian, I think.

"Carla! Come and meet Lou and Martin."

There is a big sigh, and then unfolding out of the passenger seat is a long-legged sultry woman, a girl really, with dark hair and a pouty mouth. She is tall and svelte and dressed in red, and looks like an exotic bird dropped among the pigeons.

"Ciao" she says, hardly looking at us. I take her proffered hand, and she looks at it like a fish. A dead fish. "Danny, caro, can we go back to the hotel now?" She wraps her arms possessively around his waist and appears indifferent to us and to Muriel.

"Lovely to meet you, Carla. Welcome to Portwenn." Louisa's tone is friendly. "We're looking forward to the wedding tomorrow."

Carla says nothing and Danny is beginning to look uncomfortable. He says "Mum, are you ready then? Let's take you back home and then Carla and I will have time to freshen up before dinner." He takes his mother's arm to help her into the Jag. Carla takes this opportunity to look us up and down. It appears she finds us beneath acknowledgement. Louisa starts fussing with the pram and Will's blanket. I am not sure what she is waiting for – if it were just me I would have walked away by now. Danny comes back for Carla next. I see him lean towards Louisa and realize he intends to kiss her goodbye. Somehow this incenses me. I immediately put my arm around her shoulders and pull her towards me, securely away from him. She gives me a quizzical look.

"We have to be going, Louisa, darling, don't we?" I say, as I start to push the pram with my other hand. She looks at me as if I have grown two heads and I am miserable again. "Good bye Danny, Good bye Carla." I sweep Louisa and Will away from Danny towards home.

X X X X X

"What was that all about?" I ask Martin, indignantly as he drags me up the hill after him. "Some kind of he-man competition? Why not just beat your chests like gorillas and be done with it?"

"I didn't like the way he was looking at you" he replies. There is a fiery possessiveness in his tone. I am not sure I like it.

"How was he looking at me? And what does it matter anyway what he is looking at?"

"Oh, that's priceless." He has that stiff Martin look about him, the one that makes me edgy. We are at the door now, but I make no move to unlock it.

"Really? Shouldn't you be asking yourself first who I was looking at? Who you were looking at? I noticed you eyeing that signorina he's got with him."

"Only because she was being rude to you."

"Really – you weren't sizing her up, comparing me and my baby fat and my crow's feet to her?"

"Bulimic" he says.

"What?"

"She's bulimic. Someone that emaciated and with hands that cold and teeth like that. Definitely bulimic."

"So you weren't wishing she was with you instead of with him? That you could have her instead of me?"

"No. How could you even think that? You're the woman I love, the mother of my son, the heart of heart." He looks so earnest when he says this I can't help but soften.

"Oh, Martin!" I make sure the brake is on the pram and then I reach up and wrap my arms around his neck and kiss him soundly. He responds enthusiastically, holding me tightly. Just then we hear wolf whistles and shouts of "way to go Miss Glasson" and "lover boy" and "show her how it's done, Doc" from the crowd of teen-aged girls coming down the hill behind us. I feel Martin freeze. I whisper to him "maybe you'd like to continue this upstairs." We wait for the crowd to pass us by before unlocking the door and ducking inside.


	9. Chapter 9

Snapshots

Chapter 9

I have never before carefully observed a woman dressing for a formal occasion. It has been a revelation this morning, watching Louisa drift back and forth from the lavatory to the wardrobe to the bureau and back downstairs. I've been tidying the kitchen and tending to Will and generally staying out of her way. The wedding is at 2, and Louisa is not the bride this time, but she's been fussing about getting ready since she got up this morning. She's murmured about nail varnish, hair pins and something that sounded like bronzer. When she went by in some sort of lacy petticoat at 11:30, I told her she looked nice and she gave me a look of pity that seemed to say "leave this to the professionals."

"Will, we men of the family need to stick together. Too much estrogen entirely going on in there for me." I tell him, as I get him changed. He looks at me with sleepy eyes and the hint of a smile. We sit in the rocker for a few minutes of peace and he drifts off. I put him down and look at my watch. It is 12:30 and I guess it is time for me to think about getting ready myself.

I lay my fresh clothes out on the bed before going to take a shower. "Louisa, have you seen the jacket to my blue suit? It's not here with the rest of my things." She pokes her head out of the lav. "I dunno, Martin. When did you last have it?"

"I was wearing it Friday when I got here."

"Well I hung one jacket up in the cupboard under the stairs – remember? You didn't want Will to spit up on it? It's probably still there."

I head back downstairs and look in the cupboard – hanging there amongst her coats and handbags and various other mysterious things is my jacket. "Found it!" I call up the stairs. Pulling it out, I knock some kind of bag off its hook and onto the floor. I see that it has fallen behind a box. As I shift the box, I realize it is one I have seen before – in fact it is one I had assumed was in my office at Imperial, waiting to be unpacked. I wonder what in the world this is doing here of all places. I am stunned to see it. I poke through some of its contents, taking a brief personal inventory.

"Martin, are you going to get a move on? Poppy will be here at 1 and you're not even in the shower yet."

"Ah, yes. I'll be right up." I push the box back where it was and put it out of my mind.

In short order I am showered and shaved and nearly dressed. I am just putting on my tie when Louisa comes back, still not in her dress. She looks at me strangely.

"How are you doing that?" she asks.

"Doing what?"

"Tying your tie without looking in the mirror. Don't you need to see what you are doing?"

"I never really thought about it – it's just automatic I guess. I've been doing it every day since I was at school. Up at the hospital, I change in and out of scrubs multiple times a day sometimes. Don't think I've looked in a mirror to do it since I was 8."

"Ah. Talented, you are." As I put on my jacket, she leans over and brushes my shoulder and then smoothes my lapel. "Very handsome too." I look at my toes in embarrassment.

"You're still not dressed" I remind her as a way of changing the subject.

"Almost there. Here." She hands me the hanger as she carefully removes the dress and steps into it. "Can you do my zip?"

It seems incredibly intimate to stand close to her and zip her dress. Her hair is piled high in some complicated arrangement, so I am looking at the graceful curve of her neck. Like a swan, I think. A white swan. She turns as she runs her hands down the sides of the dress and over her hips. She looks a bit vulnerable as she asks me "Will this do?"

To me, Louisa is the most beautiful woman I have ever known, and she takes my breath away no matter what she is wearing. But I don't have words to express how I feel looking at her in this soft green dress that clings to her curves with her hair piled up and her lips shaded rose.

"Very nice" is all I can manage. She blushes softly, and it only makes her look lovelier. I put my hands on her waist and bend to kiss her.

"Mind the dress" she says but she responds to my kiss. As I pull back and admire her, I recall what is in the box downstairs and an idea strikes me.

"Excuse me for just a moment" I say as I head downstairs.

"Martin?" she seems puzzled.

When I come back, she is touching up her lipstick and fussing with a tiny black handbag. I hand her a flat box wrapped in white paper.

"What's this then?" she asks, looking at the box carefully as if she cannot believe it, and then looking at me.

"It's, er, a present. Something I bought for you a while ago. I just thought it might look nice with your dress." I am nervous and don't know where to look.

Slowly, she unfolds the paper, smoothing each crease. Inside is a black velvet box from the jeweler, and when she opens it she finds a strand of pearls. It was intended for our wedding day – it had seemed important at the time for me to actually choose an appropriate gift for her. I hadn't personally selected her engagement ring, so this was the first thing of any real significance I had ever bought for her.

Her eyes are shiny with tears as she looks from the box in her hands back up at me. "Martin, thank you. It's beautiful." There is no thought of the dress this time as she envelops me in an embrace and kisses me passionately. I taste the lipstick on her mouth and feel the tears on her cheek.

"I haven't made you sad, have I?" I ask, anxiously, at a loss as I always am when confronted by a female in tears.

"No, Martin. Not sad. Not sad at all." She looks at me and smiles, then pulls a tissue out of her bag and begins rubbing at my mouth.

"I've got lipstick all over you – it won't do to have Poppy arrive and have us look like we've been up to something."

"Good thought. Do you want me to help you put that on?" I ask, pointing at the box.

"Please" she replies, handing it over.

I work out the clasp and drape it around her neck. I kiss the back of her neck when I finish. She looks in the mirror and smiles. "Perfect" she exclaims.

"It suits you."

Just then the doorbell rings. "Poppy" she says. "Can you let her in and go over the instructions while I touch up my face? I have all the numbers written down by the phone and you'll need to show her where the bottles are in the fridge."

"Don't worry - I'll take care of it" I say, giving her another long look. "But don't be too long – it's not good form to arrive after the bride does."

X X X X X

After going over the instructions with Poppy one last time, we are off, and have a reasonably good chance of being on time. I am nervous and excited. A lot of firsts today – the first time leaving Will with a baby minder, the first public social event for Martin and me together since the night of Holly's concert last fall, the first wedding I've attended since planning our own ill-fated one. I look over at him, handsome in his dark suit, and touch the pearls around my neck. He is quiet, intent on driving. I wonder if I will ever know the depths of what is going on in his head. I think about what it might be like to try.

When we arrive at High Trees, we see chairs and a small archway of flowers arranged on the lawn. I wave to Joan who looks resplendent in purple, with a posy in her hand. We find seats near the back on the aisle and greet those around us with whispered hellos, small hugs from or handshakes. Mr. Routlege is there, looking much better cared for than when I rented his cottage from him. I see Beth Sawle too – I hadn't known she had moved here but I guess if Janet is off to prison it is probably better that Beth have a change of pace and some company. The vicar is preparing to officiate. He gives Martin a cold look as he pointedly limps by – still recovering from the broken hip I guess. I spy Carla in the front row, dressed outrageously in what looks like a leather mini skirt, with dark glasses on so you can't read her expression.

The ceremony is lovely. The bride looks beautiful in a pale pink suit and the groom is beaming. Danny gives his mum away and she looks very happy taking Mr. Baker's hand and reciting her vows. As she does so, I have a lump in my throat, remembering my lost opportunity to promise to love Martin for better, for worse. I look at him and find he is looking at me too, with emotion in his eyes. I take his hand and squeeze it.

There is a round of applause when the vicar pronounces them man and wife and Mr. Baker plants a decorous kiss on his new wife's cheek. Arm and arm they walk back down the aisle and I see them lean into one another, helping. I feel happy for them and also self-pity, wondering if I will have the man I love to lean on when we grow old. You had your chance, old girl, I think. You had your chance and you blew it. Martin puts his hand at the small of my back and leads me away.

We all go into the building where there are sandwiches and tea and champagne and punch laid out on tables. A precariously tiered wedding cake stands waiting to be cut as well. One of the residents from High Trees has commandeered the piano and is playing old love songs. When she strikes up As Time Goes By, Arnold takes Muriel's hand and leads her in a stately box step, to the delight of the guests. I look at Martin over my cup of punch and wonder if he is remembering how we danced in the kitchen too.

Joan comes over to join us. "Hullo Marty, Hullo Louisa, lovely wedding, wasn't it?"

"Hullo Auntie Joan" says Martin.

"Yes, yes it was" I say. "You look wonderful too, Joan. That color really suits you."

We chatter a bit, small talk mostly, then I excuse myself to find the loo. When I go in I am shocked to see Carla lying on her back on the floor. Her eyes are closed and she doesn't seem to be moving. I take her hand briefly and feel it is cold and blue but she does seem to be breathing. I rush back to Martin.

"Martin, you've got to come quickly. It's Carla – I think she's passed out." He reacts immediately. "Auntie Joan, call for an ambulance right away" he says over his shoulder as he follows me.

We get a few strange looks as we go into the Ladies. One lady stares at us accusingly, as if we are going to commandeer the place for a rendezvous. "Let me through – I'm a doctor. Medical emergency" he says. When we reach her, I see that she has not moved since I left her. Martin immediately kneels down and begins to examine her. "Louisa – can you send Danny in here then ask the manageress for the medical kit?" I nod and off I go.

When I go back to the reception, I scan the room, looking for Danny. I see him dancing with his mum. When I reach him, he leans in to kiss my cheek. "Hullo Lou, glad you could make it."

"Danny, come quickly. It's Carla. She's passed out. Martin is taking a look at her and he's called for an ambulance." He looks shocked. I point him towards the loo and go to find the manageress and the medical kit.

When I get back with a meager first aid kit, Martin has Carla rolled onto her side and he is questioning Danny.

"She must have taken something. Did you see her? Did she say anything about pain or an injury or whatever?"

"No not really. She did ask me to stop at the chemist yesterday, but since she was somewhat cagy about it, I assumed it was some sort of , er, personal item she needed and didn't pry."

"Has she been acting herself or has her behavior changed at all?"

Danny looks uncomfortable. He shifts on his feet, then admits "Not sure, really. I haven't known her that long."

Martin gives him long look. "Find her handbag then, let's take a look."

I see a handbag under the stall door and I pick it up and hand it to Danny. "Is this Carla's?" He nods. He opens it up and pulls out lipstick, a few notes, and three pill bottles. Wordlessly, he hands the pill bottles to Martin.

"Oh, God." Martin says, looking at the labels. "Has she had anything to drink? Alcohol, I mean?"

"She had a glass of wine at lunch – she said it was to steady her. Then she had some champagne when we came in from the lawn. Not sure what else, but I wouldn't think she had too much."

"Well she's mixed the alcohol with one or more likely a couple of these powerful opioids and it seems that's lowered her heart rate and her blood pressure. Do you know how many of these pills she's taken?"

Danny shakes his head. Martin looks down at the bottles. "This one is from yesterday – filled at the Portwenn Pharmacy in the name of Stephen Westerly. Do you know who he is?" Danny shakes his head again and looks grave. "There were 20 tablets according to the bottle and there are only four left. We need to get her to hospital so they can pump her stomach and get this out of her system."

Martin and Danny pick her up and move her out to the hallway to a chair, much to the relief of the line of women waiting for the toilet. As Martin watches for the ambulance and keeps an eye on Carla, I steal away to call Poppy and check on Will.

X X X X X X

"Suspected overdose" I say to the ambulance attendants when they arrive. "Found these bottles in her handbag after she was discovered unconscious on the floor. Probably has alcohol in her system too."

"We've got it, doc. Second one this week. Overdose, I mean."

"Right. That's the boyfriend – you'll want to take him along though he doesn't seem to know much about what she's been up to."

"Ok. Leave it to us."

As I watch them wheel the gurney to the waiting ambulance, I look around for Louisa. I don't see her immediately, so I return to the party. While I have tried to be discreet, it is clear that the arrival of the ambulance has put something of a damper on the festivities. Louisa and Joan are sitting next to Muriel, who looks less like a bride than she did thirty minutes ago.

"Marty!" Auntie Joan says. "Is she going to be alright?"

"She's on her way to hospital. They should be able to sort her out. Stupid girl, though really. She's got illegal prescriptions in her bag and she's apparently mixed them with alcohol so she's made quite a mess of it."

"Poor Danny" says the new Mrs. Baker. "Always so unlucky in love." She looks pointedly at Louisa when she says this. Her husband comes up, and I nudge Louisa.

"Muriel" she says "It's really been a lovely wedding. I'm so glad to have met you Mr. Baker and I wish you both every happiness." We make excuses about needing to see to the baby, and nod and say our goodbyes, giving Auntie Joan a hug before we leave. I am relieved to be going. It has all been a bittersweet reminder of what didn't happen last October.

I guide Louisa to the car and open the door for her. Before she gets in, she puts her hands on my shoulders. "You're brilliant, you know. What would Carla have done if you weren't there?"

"I didn't do much – can't do much without a proper medical kit. Whether she makes it or not will be up to the chaps in Truro."

"Still. I know I feel more secure knowing you're in Portwenn. I suspect much of the village will agree."

"Well hopefully they won't have much call for my medical skills in the next 24 hours. I'd like to have the night off before heading back to London tomorrow."

I blush a little, thinking about some of the ways Louisa and I have been spending my time in Portwenn. It has been a revelation, a gift I do not deserve. The many dreams I've had of holding her in my arms, of showing her exactly how I feel about her have not begun to prepare me for the reality of being with her. Nor did the handful of nights spent together during our engagement. We were so new, so anxious, so urgent then. And so sure we had all the time in the world to get it right. This time it is sweeter, more longed for, unhurried and delicious. More precious too, knowing how it feels to be apart.

"Me too" she says, getting into the car. I could swear there is a twinkle in her eyes and I wonder what she is up to.

I won't get to find out. At that moment my mobile rings.

"Ellingham."

"Doc, its Pauline. You've got to come."

"What's wrong? Why are you calling me – why not Brewster?"

"It's Brewster that needs you, Doc. I've just found him on the floor of the surgery and I think he's dying."


	10. Chapter 10

Disclaimer – I own nothing. Doc Martin and everything related belongs to Buffalo Pictures.

Snapshots

Chapter 10

Martin's demeanor changes immediately upon hearing from Pauline. In full medical mode, he begins peppering her with questions – is Brewster conscious, is he breathing, is he bleeding? I hear everything through the speaker and can sense Pauline's panic through the line. From the sounds of it, she's found Brewster battered, bloody and unconscious and the surgery in shambles.

"Have you rung for an ambulance yet?" he asks her.

"Yes, but they said it might be a while. I thought you might be closer" she says, shakily.

"You were right to ring me, Pauline. We're coming down High Street right now – we'll be ten minutes, tops. Is the door unlocked?" His voice is calm and reassuring.

"Er, I think so. The front door."

"Good. See if you can find a blanket for him and sit tight. Don't try to move him."

After Martin disconnects, he turns to me. "Louisa – see if you can get Penhale – ask him to meet us at the surgery."

I dig for my own mobile and dial the police station.

"Portwenn Police."

"Joe, it's Louisa Glasson. There seems to have been a break-in at the surgery. Pauline found Doctor Brewster injured and called Martin. Can you meet us there?"

"Affirmative, Miss Glasson. I have D.I. Chester with me from East Cornwall C.I.D. We'll be there directly." He sounds as if he can barely contain himself.

"Thanks, Joe. Pauline's pretty shook up so I'm guessing the doctor is in a bad way. Ambulance is coming too."

"Roger that, Miss Glasson." He hangs up abruptly.

"Martin, I'm really scared. Violence and breaking and entering is just unheard of in the village."

"Let's wait until we get there to draw our conclusions" he replies. It all seems too awful to contemplate.

We arrive at the surgery just behind Penhale, who has left his Rover with its lights flashing right in front. We pull up and Martin leaps out, handing me the keys.

"You should go home, Louisa" he urges.

"I'm not leaving you, Martin. You might need help." I park the car and run up the steps. Inside the reception area, it is clear that someone has been here looking for something. Not a random thief, though, because Pauline's computer is still on her desk. But the drawers and cupboards have been ransacked and the contents strewn on the floor.

Martin is in the consulting room with Pauline and Brewster, examining Brewster carefully while Pauline holds an IV bag. This room has been thoroughly tossed as well and papers and instruments and medicines lie scattered all over the floor. There is blood pooling on the carpet too – I'm not sure whose it is.

"Martin, how can I help?"

"Look around for his medical bag, will you? Maybe the vandals missed that."

It's not by the door where Martin kept his, but when I go to the desk, I see a black bag under the kneehole. I bring it back. When I get there, I see that Brewster has blood all over his face and head and that it is now staining Martin's clothes as he works. I swallow hard and look away.

Pauline has steadied now that Martin has arrived and is taking items out of the medical kit as Martin directs here. He has given Brewster an injection and has moved on to listening to his heart and lungs. Pauline begins applying pressure with a bandage roll to a nasty gash on Brewster's right arm.

"Louisa – can you go find Penhale? I need help lifting him up." I nod and leave the room, gratefully. I find Penhale and his companion in the kitchen. The door there has been smashed and there is shattered glass and splintered wood everywhere.

"This is a crime scene, Miss! Stay back" barks the older man.

"Right. Martin just wondered if you could help him move the patient, Joe."

"Ah, sure thing." He follows me back to the consulting room.

"Take his legs then" Martin says, kneeling by Brewster's upper body, "but be careful – I think he may have a fractured femur. We want to move him onto his left side. On my count then . . ." Brewster moans as they move him and I have to look away. Martin must have noticed, for he directs me to go outside and watch for the ambulance. I am more than willing to go.

I take a deep breath of fresh air and try to clear my head of the terrible images by thinking of Will. I hope he is sleeping soundly across the way and not giving Poppy any difficulties.

I hear the siren before I see the ambulance and my spirits are buoyed. When they pull up, I direct them inside and try to stay out of the way as Martin, Pauline and the ambulance attendants go over Brewster's condition and get him loaded for transport to hospital. When the sirens move off down the road, I go to Martin immediately. H wraps his arm around my shoulders and I begin to feel safe again.

"Let's go home" I say.

"Not just yet" says Penhale, coming out onto the front steps of the surgery. "I'm going to need formal statements from all of you."

Pauline looks green and spent. Martin is also looking weary.

"Can't we do that later?" I beg.

"Afraid not."

"Well do Louisa first" says Martin. "She needs to get home and feed the baby."

X X X X X

After the nasty business at the surgery, I walk back to Louisa's, grateful to be out of the consulting room which stank of blood and fear. It was dreadful to see the destruction of the equipment and tools of my trade. What a waste. As far as we could tell, Brewster had been surprised by an intruder and been savagely beaten with a blunt object as well as stabbed repeatedly with a knife – or possibly with one of his own scalpels. Penhale was full of theories, but his companion from C.I.D. was closemouthed. There is more to this than meets the eye.

When I get to the cottage, Louisa answers the door with an expression of relief. She looks so fresh and pristine after all the gore. I bury my face in her hair, drowning the acrid smell of Brewster's blood with the perfume of her shampoo. She holds tightly to me. When she pulls away to draw me into the lounge, I see that her dress, her lovely new dress, is covered in blood, transferred from my clothing to hers. I look down and see that I am soaked with it.

I feel my gorge rise and the familiar unwelcome reaction. Silently cursing, I run for the toilet and am violently sick. When I've brought up all in my gut, I am disgusted with myself. I remove my ruined jacket and leave it on the floor. I wash my hands and rinse my mouth and begin to grope for my toothbrush. She knocks at the door.

"Martin, are you alright?" Her voice is sweet and filled with concern.

"Yes, just a moment" I mumble through the toothpaste. I turn the taps on full and splash my face.

"May I come in?"

I am not sure how to answer that question. I don't want her to see me falling apart and yet I can think of no better comfort than to be with her. After a pause, I open the door and she looks at me anxiously.

"I'm sorry I spoiled your new dress" I say, brushing at the blood stains across her bosom.

"Oh" she says, looking down. She is startled. "Hazards of hugging a doctor, I guess. But I am sure looking at this mess isn't making you feel any better." She turns and offers me her back. "Can you unzip me?" I do as I am asked and she steps out of the dress, leaving a silky green puddle on the floor beside my jacket.

"Why don't you have a bath? It will make you feel better." I nod and begin to remove my bloody tie and shirt while she runs the bath. I expect her to leave me to it but she is slow to go, laying out a new bar of soap and a fresh facecloth and a pile of fluffy towels. As the water fills the tub, I take off my vest and my belt and my shoes and socks, still waiting for her to go. She is rummaging in a cupboard now and brings out some candles which she lights and sets on the window ledge. I smell soothing lavender and it helps alleviate the odor of blood.

She stands there in the candlelight in her lacy underclothes, facing me. I stand dumbstruck, bare-chested clad in only my bloodstained trousers. "Do you want privacy or company, then?" she asks softly, offering what I never could have dared to ask for.

"Stay" is all I can manage.

She smiles and wraps her arms around me. Somehow we shed the rest of our clothing and sink into the comfort of the warm water. She lies back against my chest and we are quiet together in the flickering light.

X X X X X

I tried not to wake Martin when I rose to feed Will at two am. He was so spent after the ordeal of Sunday and I hoped he could get some rest. But he is alert and waiting for me when I creep back to bed in the dark.

"Baby alright?" he queries, pulling me back under the duvet and up against him for a cuddle.

"Just fine. I'm sorry I woke you – I know how much you need your rest and I meant for you to sleep."

"I, er, missed you" he admits, "and tomorrow night I'll be back in London. I can sleep then."

"London" I say, sadly. "You've never said much about your flat there. What's it like?"

"Not much to tell, really. Its main virtue is being walking distance to Imperial."

"Is is big enough for visitors?" I ask, as a plan forms in my mind.

"I haven't had any. I don't really expect any." He clearly is not catching what I mean.

"Well would there be room for me, for Will and me, if we came up to London to visit you?"

His arm tightens around me.

"You would do that? Come all that way? I mean, it is LONDON?" He is incredulous.

"If I were invited, I might. I never have been, you know. You never asked me to come."

"Well I've always assumed you really hated London. I mean, you told me you didn't marry Danny because he wanted you to move. And you didn't seem very happy when you came back down from London this spring."

"There wasn't anything keeping me in London this spring. Everything I wanted was in Portwenn."

"You mean the job?"

"I mean you, Martin Ellingham. You, and the prospect of sharing the news of the baby and maybe having a go at starting over."

"But when you came back, you wanted nothing to do with me and told me you didn't want me involved with the baby" he protests.

"Well I hadn't counted on Edith, had I, when I made the plan to come back."

"I've told you, Louisa, it was over between Edith and me – nearly twenty years ago when she went to Canada."

"Well it didn't seem that way, what with her hanging around and you closing up shop here so you could go to London with her."

"I wasn't going to her; I was going away from here. When you left in October, I thought that nothing could be worse than being in Portwenn without you. But when you came back, I discovered there was. It was seeing you in Portwenn and having you despise me. I was going to London because I couldn't bear it."

"Oh Martin. I never despised you. I was disappointed and proud and jealous and embarrassed – a whole host of emotions. But I never despised you."

He pauses to think about this, and then says "Well, I guess we owe Tommy our thanks."

"Whatever for?"

"Without them and that horrid bio-fuel taxi, I might have gone to London straight away and missed out on all this."

I laugh and kiss him and he responds by rolling over until I am atop him and we are nose to nose.

"So you'll come and see me in London then? Consider yourself invited?" he asks, hopefully.

"I will."

He looks as delighted as I have ever seen him. I push myself up, with one knee on either side of him.

"Martin" I say "are you really sleepy?" I ask playfully, toying with the hem of my nightdress.

"I can sleep on the train" is his answer as he pushes it over my head. 


	11. Chapter 11

Disclaimer: Doc Martin and everything else belongs to Buffalo Pictures.

Snapshots

Chapter 11

We were subdued at breakfast. Will was fractious, as though he could sense my distress at my impending departure for London. A fine, misty drizzle was falling too, almost as though the sky were crying along with him. I pack my bags while Louisa feeds him and puts him down for a mid-morning nap.

I am sitting at the table with a cup of coffee when she returns, yawning. She looks at me, and then goes to the coffee pot to pour herself a cup.

"Are you sure you should?" I ask, "I mean it's not good for Will, while you're nursing."

"Martin, I'm exhausted. I think a little caffeine is better than having me comatose."

"You should get more sleep," I tell her, going over and tracing the dark circles under her eyes with my thumbs. "Adequate rest is important."

"I didn't hear you complaining last night," she says, crossly. I feel myself turning red, remembering.

"Well, yes. But long-term, shortage of sleep can lead to all sorts of medical issues. Elevated stress hormones, obesity, cardiovascular complaints . . ."

She is very cross. I can tell by her body language. I am certain it is my fault but I can't imagine what I have done wrong now.

"Martin, why? Why do you always do this?" Her voice is loud and cross and a bit shaky.

"Do what?" I reply, cringing a bit at how cross my own voice sounds.

"Turn every personal conversation into some kind of medical diagnosis? A parade of horrible diseases? It's maddening!" She shakes her head.

"Louisa, please don't be cross. I'm just concerned about you."

"There are so very many better ways to show it," she sniffs. She walks away purposefully. She gets as far as the stairs and seems bent on going up. Then she stops, pivots, and returns.

"Suppose at breakfast I said to you 'Martin, dear, you were so long in the loo. Are you having trouble with your bowels? Because I could fix you a laxative. Or maybe your wee was the problem? Do you think it could be your prostate? Better see a specialist – that could eventually lead to erectile dysfunction and we wouldn't want any problems in that department?' Hmm? How would that make you feel?"

I sputter. "That's different. Totally inappropriate."

"How is it different, then?" she asks.

"You're, well, you're – you're not a Doctor!" I get out, finally, realizing the moment I've said it that it is a lame excuse.

She smiles. "Wouldn't you rather I said 'Martin, I love you. I want you to take good care of yourself because I mean to have a long and happy life with you. I want to dance with you like Arnold and Muriel did when we are the ones pushing eighty.' Wouldn't that be better?"

She looks at me, expectantly. I have no idea what to say. I think hard before opening my mouth.

"Louisa."

"Yes, Martin?"

"I love you."

"Oh, Martin. I love you too, I really, really do."

"Since Will is napping, will you come and have a little lie down with me so we can rest a bit before I have to go back?" I hold out my hand. She looks at it carefully, and then grasps it.

"Martin," she says, "you're a very quick learner."

X X X X X

How many times have I relived that fateful hour, awake and in dreams? The one that starts with writing that horrid letter and ends with me walking down the hill in my wedding dress and away from Martin and the future we'd planned? It has haunted me.

But the magic of dreams is that sometimes you get a do-over. You get to see what might have happened if one small thing had changed. Or what your heart longed for even if you couldn't see it at the time. And so you keep dreaming, keep revisiting the moment so see if this will be the time, the chance. As I lie sleeping on the bed, with the comforting presence of Martin spooned behind me and his arm across my belly, I am given this gift.

I walk in the kitchen door at the surgery, the same one I saw shattered last night. As I stop to leave the envelope with the letter and my ring on Martin's kitchen table, I see him on the sofa, in his suit, playing with my wedding band. I still tell him I'm sorry. I still ask him why he is there. He still stays "I couldn't make you happy." But this time it is different. This time I reply "But you could learn. Couldn't you?" He raises his face and looks at me. There are tears in his eyes. Fear is there too, and sadness. But this time there is also hope. He takes my hands and looks in my eyes. "I could try. Would you let me try?" I nod and we kiss sweetly and with longing. I feel so much relief.

My son picks this moment to awaken, whimpering. With that special radar that every mother acquires, I wake suddenly and completely. As I go to him, I know that I am smiling, recalling the dream vividly. I am frustrated too, though, because I didn't get to dream further. I didn't see us walking together to the church, greeting our guests and saying our vows. There is hope but no certainty. Despite the promise in the moment, there is still no happily ever after.

As I am tending Will, changing him, tickling his toes and teasing him with his new puppet, I hear the doorbell ring. I call to Martin, asking him to answer so I can feed the baby. I assume it is Joan coming to say goodbye. I am surprised to hear a number of male voices. I settle into the rocker so Will can nurse. The whimpering stops and we are peacefully in our own little world.

After a while, Will is finished and I take him to my bedroom to play, wondering what is going on downstairs. Ten minutes go by before I hear Martin's step on the stairs. He sits down beside me and takes my hand. I wonder what on Earth this could be about.

"Louisa, it's the police. They've come about what happened last night. They needed me first because I still own the surgery and that's where the crime took place."

"Have they solved anything yet?" I ask. "It will be hard to be here alone thinking there is a madman about." He blanches at the thought, then takes a deep breath.

"They think they have. They have evidence that Brewster has been dealing in illegal prescription drugs, right out of the surgery." There is disgust in his voice. "Apparently Mrs. Tishell and the other chemists had begun to notice some strange patterns since he came to the area. They notified the PCT which is why I had that odd call from Chris Parsons last week. Chris brought the police in. CID's been in Portwenn since Friday waiting to take him down."

"My God." I am stunned.

"It gets worse" he continues. "Remember Carla and that mess at the wedding?" I nod. "She's not Carla Rossini any more than I am. She's apparently called Mary Elizabeth Russell, from Leeds or someplace nowhere near Italy. She's involved in the drugs ring too somehow – that's why she had the pills on her."

"Poor Danny. Poor, poor Danny."

"The police have been watching Brewster, watching Carla, watching the chemists', watching the tourists, collecting evidence. Apparently they want the people buying the pills from Brewster just as much as they want him. It will take that to shut this thing down." He pauses. "Bugger all! There have been five overdoses in the area in the last month, two of them fatal." He puts his head in his hands and shakes it. "He's a bloody doctor."

"So who hurt Brewster, then? And why? And how did the police miss that if they were watching him?"

He sighs. "The hospital rang CID when they got the call from High Trees about Carla and her overdose. The police left Portwenn to charge up there and arrest her and see if they could collect any more evidence from her. While they were gone, someone obviously went after Brewster. Someone looking for more drugs, more prescriptions, maybe money."

After a minute he continues. "Such a waste. Such a bloody awful waste – of talent, of skill, of training. Isn't there enough pain in the world as it is – we don't need this, too."

I can tell he is shaken, demoralized by the fact that one of his fellows could go so wrong and do so much harm. I place Will in his lap, hoping that a smile from his son will reassure his faith in humanity. He looks down at the little face and I see a flicker of a smile cross his own. He lifts Will to his shoulder and stands. "Can you come down? They have questions for you, too." I nod and we go downstairs together, the three of us.

When we arrive in the kitchen, I see Joe sitting at the table with the DI from last night and two other men who look vaguely familiar as well. I realize in the daylight that DI Chester is the man I saw with Penhale on Saturday while Martin was at the chemist's. And the two sergeants look like the pale gits I saw by the harbor, gabbing on their mobiles and ignoring the dolphins.

"Good morning, Miss" the Inspector says, getting to his feet. The others straggle up too and nod. "Sorry to trouble you, but we've got a few questions. We're just trying to put the last couple pieces together before we make our arrests."

"Please – I'm happy to help. I am anxious to get whoever this is off the street – concerned as a parent and as head teacher."

"Do you know a Stephen Westerly? Or a Garret Anthony? Those may not be their real names but they are filling prescriptions in them so they probably are using them here in the village."

I sit down and begin to answer their questions.

X X X X X

"Ellingham" I say as I answer my mobile.

"Hullo Martin. It's Chris. I guess you've heard about this blasted business with Brewster by now."

"Er, yes. The police just left. Came to see me because I treated both Brewster and his accomplice yesterday. The woman, the one who overdosed."

"Bloody mess, this is."

"How did it go wrong, Chris? I mean, was there no sign? On his CV or somewhere?"

"We're not sure. We didn't see it. There will be an inquiry of course – to see who should have spotted this. It will be nasty."

"What will happen now?"

"Well Brewster will be tried, of course, - if he regains consciousness. Which he will probably do, thanks to your efforts last night."

"I see. What about Portwenn? I mean, there are a lot of patients here who need medical care. Who is going to step in?"

"Well that is why I am calling you, Martin. You were the best thing that ever happened to Portwenn, medically speaking. Have we lost you forever to surgery? You are a bloody good GP, you know, even with your abysmal people skills."

My heart stops. I see Louisa looking at me across the table with a questioning look on her face.

"Just a minute, Chris. I need to ask Louisa something."

I turn to her, putting the telephone down. "Do you have your heart set on visiting me in London?"

"What in the world do you mean? I would visit you on Mars if that is what it took to be with you."

"But what if you didn't have to go anywhere? What if I were in Portwenn?"

"Martin, that would be a dream come true." Her voice shakes with emotion. She comes over and sits in my lap with the baby in her arms and kisses me soundly.

"Louisa, will you marry me?" She looks like she doesn't believe I am asking her this question. Again. Her eyes shine with tears and she nods. I pick up the phone again.

"What did she say? What did she say?" Chris demands.

"She says yes which means I'll take the job."

"Congratulations!" I hang up the phone without responding.

"Martin" she says "could it really be true? Are you really willing to give up London, give up surgery, to stay here in Portwenn? Put up with the village and the gossip and the malingerers? You would do that, for me?" She sounds incredulous.

"Louisa, I would go to Mars if it meant I could be with you. I would become a vet and spend my days with flea-bitten, smelly dogs that bite."

And she laughs with that sparkling, tinkling sound that warms my heart. Will chimes in too, with a chuckle of his own. I hug them both in celebration. "I have one more call to make."

"Auntie Joan?" asks Louisa.

"Well we'll go out and tell her later. First I have to ring Imperial."

I dial Robert's number. It goes to voicemail after three rings. "Robert, it's Martin Ellingham. I've decided to answer your question. You were right of course. My heart isn't in my work in London. My heart is in Portwenn. I've decided to stay here. You'll need a new Chief of Vascular Surgery. You might consider asking Bryony Pearson about that seminar she went to on Impediments to the Advancement of Female Surgeons. I am sure it would be enlightening."


	12. Chapter 12

Disclaimer: Doc Martin and everything else belong to Buffalo Pictures.

Snapshots

Chapter 12

It is another picture-perfect autumn Saturday in Portwenn. The sun is shining brightly on the kitchen table where I'm putting together a family photo album. There are photos from Martin's childhood and mine, but the bulk of them are of Will – alone and in combinations of the two of us. There is the one of the three of us at the hospital and one of us all at the beach. Will sleeping on Martin's chest under a tree. Will and I waving to the dolphins. Will in the bath, Will in the pram, Will in his cot. There's also one of me on my first day back at school, waving to Will and Martin as I set off, blinking back the tears. And there's one of Martin in a suit and a hardhat supervising the refurbishment of the surgery. When I turn the page, I am happy to see there are many blank ones for us to fill. Lots of room for the new memories we will make together.

Martin is in the shower when I go up. I smile at the meticulous way in which he has laid out his best dark suit and a crisp white shirt on the bed. I'm not taking any chances this time around. No surgery this morning. No chance of stopping to deliver a baby or rescue a pig or see to a broken hip. Mrs. Tishell has her instructions about keeping the vicar off the sauce, Martin has named Al his best man to keep him out of the catering, and Joan and Poppy have taken charge of Will. All bridesmaids, fathers of the bride and miscellaneous hangers on have been banished. There is no one here but us.

I open the wardrobe door and take down the hanger with my dress. It is the same one I wore last year but, like me, it has needed a few alterations. I stroke the soft fabric with my left hand and admire my engagement ring. This one is different. This one Martin and I chose together in a posh London jeweler's the one and only time I went up to visit him.

Martin comes out of the lavatory, still damp from his shower. He smiles and asks "Hadn't you better put that on?" He is looking at the dress and then at me, still in my jeans with only the veil perched in my hair to give it away that today I am the bride.

"Nearly there." I give him a hug, and then wrinkle my nose. "You're still all wet!" I protest. He holds me at arm's length and kisses the tip of my nose, and then together in companionable quiet we put on our wedding clothes. I straighten his tie. He fastens my pearls. I check my lipstick and he checks his cuff links.

"All ready, then?" he asks me quietly. I slowly turn in place and ask "Will this do?" He looks at me with love and amazement and I have my answer.

He takes my hand and tucks it under his arm and together we walk down the stairs and out the door, off to the church to make promises to each other, for better and for worse, for richer and for poorer, in sickness and health, as long as we both shall live. We've gone about a 100 yards down road when P.C. Penhale pulls up in his Rover.

"Mornin' Doc, Mornin' Miss Glasson. Today's the big day, then, innit."

"Yes, yes it is." I answer. Martin is getting a cross look and pulling on my arm.

"We're due up at the church, actually, Joe. We thought you'd already be there, along with everyone else."

"Well, see, I was on my way up there when I realized I needed some medical advice. See. And I figgered my pal here, the Doc, good old Doc Martin, would be the person to see and I might just catch him before he went up to the church."

Martin is looking at him with daggers in his eyes. "Constable" he begins "this is my wedding day. OUR wedding day. I am not mucking this up by stopping to treat ANY patients. If you need medical advice, I suggest the surgery in Wadebridge."

Penhale looks downcast but opens the door of the Rover to get in. Martin looks at me, questioningly. "Shall we go then?" I nod at him and off we go. As we do we hear the sound of a crash, and then a scream from a familiar voice. We immediately turn and see that Pauline on her scooter has run right into the open door of the Rover. She is wailing, with the frills of her dress everywhere and blood on her face. I look at Martin. He looks conflicted. I say to him, "Well go on then. I better get used to being a doctor's wife." He nods and starts barking orders to ring the ambulance, to fetch his medical bag.

This, I think. This is the man I love.

THE END

Author's Note:

Many thanks to everyone who has been reading and to all who kindly left comments. I am very grateful for your patience with my very first effort. I also want to thank my family for putting up with my neglect of them while I was writing. For those who wondered, I chose to name Will after William Shawcross, Martin Clunes' character in William & Mary. I figured if my character looked like Doc and acted like Louisa this is how he might turn out.


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